


A Man Like Him

by darkestbliss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Boggarts, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Breathplay, Community: harrydracobang, Contracts, Dom Harry Potter, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Experienced Harry Potter, Falling In Love, Flogging, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018, Impact Play, Loss of Virginity, M/M, NSFW Art, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Porn With Plot, Post-Hogwarts, References to ABBA, Rimming, Romance, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Slow Burn, Smoking, Sub Draco Malfoy, Subspace, Suspension, Top Harry Potter, Virgin Draco Malfoy, Wax Play, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 60,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkestbliss/pseuds/darkestbliss
Summary: Draco Malfoy has made a name for himself after the War as 'the wizarding world's best interior architectural designer' (his words), taking old, decrepit spaces and transforming them into exquisite homes for those who can afford the hefty price tag. His most recent assignment is number twelve, Grimmauld Place, which has only deteriorated more in condition since the elusive Harry Potter inherited it after Sirius Black's death. When he stumbles upon a collection of questionable items in one of Potter's wardrobes, he finds himself appalled, shocked, distraught, and just a little bit turned on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I honestly never thought I would see this thing through, and there's a handful of people I would like to thank for helping me shape what was originally a tiny plot-bunny into... well, this! 
> 
> First, to my best friend and flatmate: thanks for encouraging me to write a BDSM fic in the first place, for dealing with me screaming about Drarry and sex toys at all hours of the day, and for picking me up when I told myself there was no way I was ever going to finish this. I have no idea why you put up with me, really, but I'm so lucky to have your constant support.
> 
> Next, [invisible_cat](https://otayuri-forever.tumblr.com/): thank you SO much for giving this fic it's first proper read-through, even though it was a bit of a scrambled mess at the time. Your feedback really helped me to make this more like a story and less like a run-away PWP.
> 
> To Phoebe: thank you for all of your encouragement and Drarry-flailing. You made me excited about this again when I thought I'd lost hope with it (and now that I'm done, I can finally write your Boys Who Lived fic!) I'm so grateful for you and the confidence you gave me with this story <3
> 
> To the mods: thank you for putting on such a wonderful fest and being so helpful/accommodating as I foolishly convinced myself I could finish on time. Your organisation and flexibility with everything has been a BLESSING. Writing a 50k fic isn't easy, but you've managed to make it a lot better with all the resources and encouragement. I can't wait to catch-up on all the hard work the other authors and their artists have put into this!
> 
> And finally, to [Veronica](https://potterfanart.tumblr.com/): you are an incredible artist, and I could not have asked for someone more passionate and motivated to make the art for this fic. Thank you so much for joining me on this adventure!
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys this story. It's been a long time coming, and I'm actually quite proud of the end result. Happy reading, and please check out Veronica's incredible art in Chapters 9, 12, and 17, and also take a look at all of her other art on [Tumblr](https://potterfanart.tumblr.com/) <3

Draco Malfoy stands on the grotty pavement of Grimmauld Place in Islington for the first time since he was a very young child with a briefcase in one hand and a Muggle takeaway coffee in the other. Although he prefers the independent coffee shop he frequents in Blackheath Village, he's had to settle for a coffee from Costa today. It scalds his tongue as he takes a small sip and he frowns, then sets his briefcase to the ground and switches the offending thing to his left hand. With his free right hand, he shuffles around in his robes for a small piece of paper he’d received by owl just the night before.

 

_Harry Potter’s home may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

 

Just seconds later, the house emerges from between numbers eleven and thirteen. Grimacing at the absolute state of number twelve, Draco picks up his things, walks up the steps, and knocks quickly on the weathered front door.

 

And of _course_ it’s Potter who opens the door. The elusive saviour, Harry Potter, who’s wearing nothing but a loose pair of Muggle tracksuit bottoms with an idiotic, confused look plastered across his face. “Oh, Malfoy, it’s you,” he says, as if it could possibly be anyone else. He furls his eyebrows and adjusts his glasses. “Is it noon already?”

 

Draco rolls his eyes at the indecency—who answers their bloody door _shirtless?—_ and casts a quick _Tempus_ charm, which shows the time as 12:07.

 

“Shit,” mumbles Potter. “Sorry. Must’ve overslept.”

 

“Please, Potter,” snaps Draco. “Don’t let me intrude on your precious day.”

 

Potter grimaces and turns around, an invitation for Draco to join him inside. The blond does so, closing the old door behind him. He immediately notices the rusted latch and rolls his eyes once again.

 

“I can see you’ve done a brilliant job in the upkeep since you’ve inherited the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” he says with a sneer, following Potter through the entrance hall, past the blank wall where a portrait of Walburga Black had once hung, and up the stairs to the first floor. They pass through a dilapidated doorway and into the old parlour. He takes in the space with mild disgust. Although Draco does not remember it from his visits as a baby—he must’ve been only a year old, at most—he guesses that not much has changed; the old settee he remembers from pictures of his mother as a young witch is pushed haphazardly against a crumbling fireplace, and a coat of dust about three millimetres thick coats the grand piano, its keys missing in many places. There is the most distinct scent of hippogriff permeating the air mixed with the stench of old Muggle takeaway—Draco can see the boxes piled carelessly atop a cabinet. He flares his nostrils.

 

“Yeah, sorry,” Potter mumbles. “It’s kind of been low on the list of priorities.”

 

Draco scoffs. “You can say that again,” he says, pulling back the dark curtains on the windows. The whole room is suddenly flooded in muted light from the storm clouds outside. It certainly highlights the musk. “How many years has it been again?”

 

“Six.”

 

“Six and _a half_ ,” Draco corrects. “Six and a half years you’ve lived in this place, Potter, and I swear to Merlin I can date that floor rug back to the 17th century!”

 

“Okay, Christ, I get it. Why do you think I owled you?”

 

“I don’t see why it took you six and a bloody-half years, this place is a disaster.”

 

“I know, I know!” Potter shouts frustratedly. He pushes his glasses up and crosses his arms over his bare chest—has he always been so damn fit? “Look, I’m sorry. I _did_ finally hire you, didn’t I? It just took me awhile. Will you please help me? Everyone says you’re the best.”

 

“Well, they’ve got that right, at least.” Draco scrunches his lips together as he carefully steps toward the ripped tapestry on the wall. “You didn’t even take down the family tree?” he asks, surprised.

 

Potter shrugs. “Wasn’t mine to take down.”

 

Draco nods, then turns back to Potter, who’s looking at him seriously. He sighs. “I’ll need to do a consultation of the whole house, to take some approximate measurements. I can do that now and then come back later in the week with a general design idea. I’ll start with the loft then go down floor by floor.”

 

“Right,” says Potter, looking beyond relieved. “Er, I was going to go through some things up there anyway, so uh, follow me, I guess.”

 

Draco keeps a steady distance from Potter as they make their way up through the old house. Each floor is almost an exact replica of the last, save for the fourth floor which actually looks somewhat habitable. The dust has been mostly swept away in the hallway and the two doors at the back have obviously had some spellwork put into them in the last decade, at least.

 

“Sirius’ old room,” Potter explains with a mumble and a brief gesture to the door. “That’s where I sleep.” Draco merely nods and continues to follow the man up the last set of stairs and into the crowded loft. The entire room is packed to the brim with dusty trunks, yellowed parchments, ancient broomsticks, and rusted owl cages. “Believe it or not, I’ve been at the loft for a couple of weeks now,” says Potter. “I’ve barely made a dent in it, as you can see. I’ll be over in that corner”—he points to a corner where a few open boxes lay—“so just shout if you need anything.”

 

Where to begin, Draco really has no idea. He feels as if he’s back in the Room of Hidden Things. How Potter has accumulated so much _stuff_ is beyond question. He trips over a pile of ancient looking Potions books and swears beneath his breath.

 

“Careful!” Potter shouts from his corner. Draco wishes the floor of number twelve would open and swallow him up.

 

It’s distracting, Potter being in the loft with him. The other wizard has gone nearly unseen in the public eye since he quit the Aurors in 2002. His image has practically disappeared from all headlines. No one really knows what he’s been up to, save for probably his posse of dedicated Gryffindor friends. The wizarding world without Harry Potter has been… quiet, if nothing else. As Draco walks the perimeter of the space, casting a few diagnostic spells to determine its expanse, he can hear Potter mumbling to himself a few paces away, hidden behind an old wardrobe. Behind that wardrobe, Draco thinks, is the man who has inadvertently taken everything from him, everything he’d ever known about life and all his dignity. He bites his lip, trying to avoid thoughts of the war and instead focus his mind to the task at hand, as his Mind Healer had encouraged him to do when he was still seeing her a couple years ago. He sips at his coffee and moves around the loft, making a couple of mental notes. However, as he takes a closer look at the eaves and thinks about his plan for dormer windows in the space, he can't help but fixate on the fact that he’s currently alone in a room with a shirtless Harry Potter, sworn enemy since the age of eleven, subject of all wet dreams since the age of fifteen, saviour of the wizarding world since the age of seventeen. And now… client. At the age of twenty-four.

 

Quickly scrawling a preliminary plan for the loft conversion onto a parchment, Draco heads for the staircase that takes him down to the fourth floor, vanishing his now empty Costa cup. “I’ll be up here,” Potter calls after him. “Just let me know when you’re done.”

 

“Right,” replies Draco. “Might be a bit, going by the state of this place.”

 

Potter simply offers another grimace, and Draco disappears down the steps.

 

It takes him the better of four hours to consult the entirety of the house, all seven floors, from the loft to the basement. Though it’s no match for the elegance and refinement of Malfoy Manor, there is no doubting that number twelve, Grimmauld Place had once been a place of most dignified and aristocratic composition. Now, however, it sits in the dark beneath layers of dust, mildew, and a dated Fidelius Charm, accumulated over the course of a couple of decades.

 

Draco considers his initial sketches at the worn table in the basement kitchen. He has a vague idea of a design for the house, one that requires the removal of a _lot_ of wallpaper. His team is going to have a hard job ahead of them, that’s for sure. It will take a solid two and a half months of advanced spellwork along with physical labour; vanishing charms just won’t do in this situation. The loft, basement, and first floor will need the most work, along with the addition of an arch on the fourth floor between two rooms in order to make a large master suite for Potter. Draco sighs, rolling up his parchments and heading back up to the loft to inform Potter of his plans.

 

Along the way, he decides to stop once more on the fourth floor and take a closer look at the wall dividing Sirius’ and Regulus’ old rooms. Thinking little of it, Draco steps into Sirius Black’s old room, paying no mind to the unmade four-poster bed or the random piles of clothes on the floor. A large wardrobe stands against the wall, so Draco casts _Carpe Retractum_ to pull it away and get a better view. He nods to himself, noting the addition of an arch should be possible with a lot of dedicated spellwork. He goes to push the wardrobe back, and as he does, one of its doors swings open, leaving Draco struck frozen.

 

Inside the wardrobe, arranged far more neatly than Draco thought could be possible for one Harry Potter, are an array of what look like Muggle weapons and torture devices. A row of knives shine in the light filtering in from the open window, and without thinking, Draco lets out a high pitched shriek of, “Potter!”

 

There’s thumping and crashing and in less than a few seconds, Potter is bursting through the door, face flushed and hair wild. And he’s still not wearing a shirt. “Malfoy! What’s— _oh._ ” Potter freezes dead in his tracks, horror washing over his features.

 

“What,” Draco bites, “in the name of _Merlin_ are you doing, Potter?! Who have you been bloody torturing?!”

 

“It’s not what you think it is,” Potter shouts, rushing forward.

 

Draco has to hold back from immediately hexing the giant git, doing the entire wizarding (and perhaps Muggle) world a favour by eliminating the sadist once and for all. However much of a name he’s made for himself as the best interior architectural designer in wizarding history, he’s still Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and pure-bloodist scum, and a headline depicting him taking down the Golden Boy would do nothing but shatter his already weak reputation. Instead, he just continues to stare at the other man in shock and terror.

 

“What else could it possibly be?” Draco hisses, his hand gripping his wand tighter. There’s the possibility that Potter could murder him right here, right now. Oh _Merlin,_ what if he’s next on Potter’s spree? He’ll die and no one will care; his poor mother will be left all by herself, all because the fame and pressure got to Harry fucking Potter and turned him into a complete nutter.

 

Potter grimaces again. “I’d really rather not explain it to _you,_ of all people.”

 

“Well you’d better bloody well explain because I really don’t know how well people will take to the bloody saviour keeping a wardrobe full of bloody knives and”—he picks up what looks like the sort of harness the Thestrals at Hogwarts wear when they pull the students up to the castle—“bloody chains! And are those whips?”

 

“Yes.” Potter rushes forward and grabs the chain and leather contraption from Draco’s hand, setting it carelessly inside the wardrobe and shutting it immediately. “You really shouldn’t be sneaking around in other people’s things, Malfoy. It’s not polite.” Draco notices that Potter is gritting his teeth and that a peach coloured flush has crossed his dark cheeks. He also keeps pushing up his glasses even though they sit perfectly straight across his nose.

 

“Well you shouldn’t be hoarding bloody weapons in your bedroom, _Potter._ ”

 

“Christ,” says Potter, rubbing his forehead. “Look. Okay. I’m sorry, I should’ve made sure it was all locked up before you got here.

 

“Well it wasn’t, care to explain yourself?”

 

Potter glances up at the ceiling and mouths something to himself. Draco can barely hear him, although he thinks it sounds like something along the lines of “shitting fuck.”

 

“I don’t have all day, Potter. You’re lucky I haven’t already called the Ministry to come arrest you for murder!” Draco is shouting again. He’s not sure how that has happened; maybe it’s because he’s talking to the biggest nitwit in the entire wizarding world.

 

“Calm down,” Potter replies, suddenly not so loud. “Merlin!” He has the audacity to let out a little chuckle. “It’s just bondage gear. I’ve never had someone react quite so dramatically as you. Even Ron wasn’t this theatrical.”

 

He speaks as if Draco is some sort of idiot. Draco knows _he’s_ definitely not the idiot in the room.

 

“What are you on about?”

 

Potter sighs, glancing up at the ceiling another time. He lowers his head and stares at Draco for a couple of long seconds. “You seriously haven’t figured it out?” he asks.

 

“What is there to _figure out_?”

 

“I can’t believe this,” Potter mumbles before walking forward and opening the wardrobe again. Draco takes an instinctive step backwards from Potter and the wardrobe and prepares to cast _Petrificus Totalus_ at any moment. Potter opens the bottom drawer on the wardrobe revealing a neat row of… well, the only word Draco can think of to describe the items is _phallic_. He swallows heavily as Potter shuts the drawer and opens the one on top of it. This drawer contains a variety of coloured ropes and scarves. The top and final drawer is opened, revealing a row of items which are conical in shape. Draco has no idea what _any_ of it means.

 

“I still don’t get the point,” he says. “How are you supposed to kill anyone with that thing?” He points to the cone-shaped _thing._

 

“Christ, Malfoy. It’s bondage gear and toys. For sex. Does your prudish pure-blood arse even know what sex is? How are you planning on carrying on the line?”

 

“Of course I know what sex is!” Draco shouts exasperatedly. _Of course he knows what sex is._ At least, the general idea—the acute technicalities of it, maybe not so much—but that’s what happens when you spend seven years as a pawn in a war where you only really get close with one friend, who happens to be both a woman _and_ gay. Things would’ve been different for Draco and Pansy had they both not been the gayest Slytherins in decades. The last six and a half years have been spent doing nothing but working and experimenting with himself—and only himself—and occasionally a heated snog in a toilet or two. His hand and fingers are a _gift._ What wizard in his right mind would want to settle down with an ex-Death Eater, of all people? “Of course I know what sex is,” Draco repeats. He chances a look at Potter, who’s staring at him with a raised and unconvinced eyebrow. “And for the love of Salazar, put a shirt on, Potter. I know this isn’t the Ministry of Magic, but have some bloody respect.”

 

Potter puts his hands up in surrender and finally, _finally_ steps away from that cursed wardrobe. He bends down, grabbing a balled up shirt from the floor, gives it a sniff, and easily slips it over his head. “Better?”

 

Draco just nods, still in a mixed state of shock, embarrassment, and just plain _horror_. He never should’ve taken this damn job. It could very well be the end of him.

 

“Are you okay, Malfoy?” Potter asks seriously. “You look like you’ve just seen a basilisk.”

 

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice going strangely squeaky. It feels like the temperature in the room has just jumped a million degrees.

 

“Look, I really am sorry,” says Potter. “You weren’t supposed to see any of that, it’s for me and my subs only.”

 

“Your _what?”_ Draco cries.

 

“My subs. Submissives. Whoever they may be.”

 

Draco simply stares back at Potter. Potter sighs.

 

“Christ,” he grumbles. “Okay, BDSM crash course, Malfoy. Bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, and sadomasochism. Consensual, erotic, sexual play with dominant and submissive roles.”

 

“What?”

 

“I like to tie people up and hurt them during sex, okay?” says Potter. “That’s it.”

 

Draco chokes this time. His skin is on fire and he can’t breathe and everything is so, so, _so_ wrong. He has to get out of this place, and soon. He’s positive Potter’s actually gone crazy this time. He doubts the Ministry will believe him, but he’s got to get the word out somehow. And that starts with getting out of number twelve and far away from Grimmauld Place.

 

He coughs for a few seconds after catching his breath, shuts his eyes and attempts to cool his rapidly heating face. “I think that will be all for today, Potter,” he says calmly, slowly, like his life depends on it. “I will be in contact with you via owl soon.”

 

Potter steps back, blinking. “Really, Malfoy? You’re just going to leave now?”

 

Nodding, Draco turns on his heel to leave. He’s a few steps from the stairwell when Potter’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He jerks back instinctively and goes for his wand, but when Potter turns him around, the man is laughing and Draco thinks, _perhaps_ , that Potter isn't going to hex him into the next century.

 

“Give Pansy my best,” he says with a nod.

 

And then, Potter gives him a firm squeeze on the shoulder, turns around, and goes up the stairs, leaving Draco completely alone once again on the fourth floor. He stands vacant-eyed for a few moments, looking into the distance where he last saw Potter’s retreating form. He blinks a fair few times in an attempt to centre himself, then moves down the many stairs as quick as his legs will take him. When he pushes open the front door and arrives back onto Islington’s pavements, he is out of breath and has to bend down. As he turns around to stare back at the old bricks of the house, a shiver runs sharply down his spine. With a tremble in his hand, he turns, and Apparates away.


	2. Chapter 2

“You will _never_ believe what Potter has in his wardrobe!”

 

Pansy sips her tea disinterestedly and gives Draco a nonchalant look. “Even if I didn’t know, I’m sure you’re about to tell me anyway going by the way you’ve just Floo’d in here without even calling me first. Sit down, darling.” She waves to the empty settee. Draco moves from the fireplace and sits.

 

Pansy’s home is not large by high-class pure-blood standards, but its decor more than makes up for it in its elegance. The home matches her personality perfectly; it’s dark and ostentatious, similar to the Slytherin common room but with a touch more femininity. It was the first property that Draco had ever renovated; the Muggle building overlooking Hampstead Heath was once crumbling and decrepit amongst the rows of perfect terraced houses in the area. Now, it stands tall and pristine amidst its neighbours. Those who pass by notice its peculiarity, yet struggle to identify just the thing that makes it so distinct. Only a few who happen upon it can determine that which creates such a feeling of eccentricity. It is a place so distinctly magical disguised so well amongst its Muggle surroundings, not unlike number twelve, Grimmauld Place if the Fidelius were lifted from it. Draco loves it, though not as much as he loves his own little garden flat in Blackheath.

 

Pansy’s house-elf, Deesey, appears immediately with a tray of tea and biscuits, and sets them down on the table between him and Pansy. “Here you are, Mr. Malfoy,” says the young elf. “Can Deesey be getting Mr. Malfoy anything else?”

 

“No, thank you, Deesey,” Draco replies, reaching for his tea.

 

The house-elf Disapparates away, and Pansy motions with her hand. “So how did the consultation go?” she asks, licking her long fingers with a pop of her red painted lips.

 

Draco’s skin heats as he remembers again why he’d been so hasty to arrive at Pansy’s. “It was awful!” he shouts. “Did you know Potter keeps Muggle weapons in his wardrobe?” Pansy’s black brows raise in doubt, and Draco continues. “He’s going to kill someone, Pansy. I swear. I guess killing the Dark Lord made his already giant head go even bigger and now he just can’t keep his hands off anyone. What an imbecile! But no one is going to believe me, right? He’s the Golden Boy. Merlin, I’m so tired of him, he’s the bane of my _fucking_ existence.” Draco pauses mid-rant to look at Pansy, who’s snickering into her tea now. “What are you laughing at?”

 

“It’s like fifth year all over again,” she says with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “Potter this, Potter that. Goddammit, I need a cigarette.” She seems to procure a black cigarette out of thin air, and lights it with her wand. “And yes, dear, I know all about the wardrobe.”

 

Draco startles, trying to figure out if he’s heard correctly. “Excuse me? You what?”

 

“I know about the wardrobe.” Pansy stands, motioning for him to follow. Draco sets his tea down with a heavy sigh and trails Pansy up two flights of stairs and to the second floor. She opens the door of the back spare bedroom, the one Draco had done the least amount of work to. He’d merely given the old walls a good scrub, exposing the brick on the nearside and coating the others in a dark damask print wallpaper. He hasn’t been back inside this room since.

 

Now, black lace curtains block out the sunlight, and an antique rug covers the entirety of the old wood floor. The lights are dim, but not dim enough for Draco to not realise that he’s looking at things much like those he had found in Potter’s wardrobe. A variety of pieces of uncomfortable looking black padded furniture are arranged in the room, and a multitude of hooks run across the ceiling. Draco swallows heavily as his eyes take in the bricked wall. Arranged neatly across it is a row of leather and metal items; the only thing he can identify is a whip.

 

He coughs, feeling suddenly like he can’t breathe. He attempts to clear his throat, but instead it hitches and he lets out an embarrassing noise which sounds not unlike a baby mandrake. “What is the meaning of all this?” he whispers. His eyes catch on a glass encased cabinet; inside are more of those phallic things he’d seen at Potter’s. His skin heats.

 

“Darling, who do you think informed Potter of your fabulous design skills? You know it certainly couldn’t have been the Weasleys.”

 

“You mean to tell me,” Draco whispers, “that you do this”—he waves his hands across the room, trying not to face any objects directly—“with _Potter_?”

 

At this, Pansy sputters. “Salazar, Draco, no! I’m a lesbian, remember? Besides, we’re both dominants. And even if I _wasn’t_ gay, or a Dom, it wouldn’t matter; Potter prefers blokes.”

 

“He _what_?”

 

“Stop acting like this is all such a surprise,” says Pansy, switching off the lights and leaving the room. Draco can’t follow her quickly enough. They move back down to the reception room. “We all knew he and Ginevra would never make it long.”

 

“And since when is the she-weasel Ginevra to you?” Draco sneers, sitting down and promptly forcing a biscuit past his tight throat.

 

Pansy shrugs. “Since we had a couple nights of fun back in, oh what was it? 2001? Lovely girl, we’ve kept in good contact since, we were both just too demanding for each other. I believe she’s with Luna Lovegood now, right? They’re cute together.” Pansy pauses and glances over at Draco. He’s tight-lipped and trying impossibly hard to not rip his hair out.

 

“Pansy,” he says. She looks at him expectantly, but he has no idea what else to say. Everything about this day is absolutely unacceptable.

 

“You look like you’ve been petrified,” Pansy states.

 

“That’s what Potter said too,” Draco mumbles in reply.

 

Pansy purses her lips in a wicked grin. “Well, he was right.” Her eyes meet Draco again and she lets the grin fall from her face. “Are you okay, Draco?”

 

“I haven’t got the slightest clue,” says Draco. “Nothing makes sense. This is a disaster of a day. I had to go to bloody _Costa_ for coffee this morning, came face to face with a shirtless Harry Potter, found all of _that_ in his wardrobe, found out my best friend is the one who recommended he use me as a designer, and now you’re telling me you partake in the same crude, horrible activities as Potter? Is there something I’m not getting?”

 

“You had to deal with that whole ordeal whilst Potter was _shirtless_?” Pansy shrieks in delight. “Oh you poor thing!”

 

_“Pansy,”_ Draco whines, crossing his arms over his chest and attempting to fix her with a harsh frown.

 

His best friend tuts and stands to move across the room and sit beside him. She leans her head on his shoulder and squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Darling, I’m sorry you had to deal with such an influx of information in so little amount of time. Maybe it’s a sign that you need to make a change for yourself.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“What I mean is, so much is _happening_ out in the world and you’ve done nothing but put your head down and work yourself half to death. You’re so worried about your bloody image that you haven’t bothered to live. You don’t go out when I invite you, you spend your weekends reading Muggle interior design magazines—I mean, really, Draco? You’ve not been on a date in months, you’ve _never_ been shagged—”

 

“Pansy.”

 

“No,” Pansy barks, “don’t interrupt me. I wasn’t finished. You need to, you know”—she waves her arms—“get out there and live a little. Get drunk, shag a stranger, tell Potter you’ve fancied him since sixth year.”

 

“Pansy!”

 

“Sorry. I meant fifth year.” She winks, and Draco has to put his head down and rub at his forehead. He’ll need to take a potion when he gets home to fight off the impending migraine.

 

“We’re _enemies_ ,” he proclaims. “And he has _knives_ in his wardrobe. He’s already scarred me up once!”

 

At this, Pansy’s demeanour immediately shifts. “Christ, Draco, no, it’s not like that.”

 

“Well that’s what it looks like.”

 

“It’s very different,” Pansy explains. “The pain isn’t meant to cause any permanent damage, like... well, you know.” She waves in the general direction of Draco’s chest, and the blond instinctively puts his hand on the spot where his deepest cut from Potter’s _Sectumsempra_ is. He still feels spikes of pain every now and then. “The pain and humiliation, it’s hot. It’s pleasurable. For _both_ participants. A good Dom won’t be satisfied unless their sub is. It’s all about interdependent roles.”

 

Draco nods, though he still doesn’t really understand. His robes feel too hot, so he tugs a few times to loosen his collar. He breathes in deep like his Mind Healer showed him how to do. It helps steady him, keeps him planted in the situation. “So,” he says with a hitch. He grimaces and tries again, his voice coming out clearer this time. “So it’s enjoyed by both?”

 

“Very much so,” Pansy says softly. She gives him a shy smile, so unlike her usual expressions. It’s supportive, not derisive as would be expected. “And Potter... let’s just say, he treats his subs very well. You have nothing to be worried about.”

 

At this, Draco frowns, and his pointedness returns. “He’s not coming _anywhere_ near me with those... those... _things_.” He says this very sharply, to emphasise his point. He fixes his friend with a glare, but Pansy just laughs, her cheekiness quickly coming back.

 

“Whatever you say, darling.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Draco stands waiting outside number twelve, Grimmauld Place, an ancient looking house-elf opens the door.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” the house-elf croaks. “Please, come in, Mr. Potter will be just a moment. Does Mr. Malfoy need anything from Kreacher? Kreacher can brew some tea.”

 

“No, thank you,” Draco replies politely, stepping into the old house. He removes his heavy outer robes and straightens the cashmere jumper he’s wearing beneath. The house is surprisingly warm in the early Autumn chill, even with its rancid appearance. At least Potter can manage a simple heating charm.

 

Draco follows the house-elf up the creaky stairs and onto the first floor. The elf opens up the door to the parlour and ushers him in. “Mr. Potter will be down shortly. Kreacher insists that Mr. Malfoy makes himself comfortable.” Draco nods, and the house-elf disappears.

 

Sitting himself down on a dusty armchair, Draco looks around the parlour again. It hasn’t changed in the four days since he was last here; he stands again quickly, moving forward and letting his eyes rake over the tapestry, finding his mother’s name. He traces down with his finger, landing on his own name, and has to quickly look away. It’s oddly disconcerting to see himself on the tree, unblemished amongst his ancestors. It’s a reminder of the consequences he has never had to face, thanks to Potter. _Potter_.

 

“Ahem.” Startled, Draco leaps back from the tapestry. Potter is standing in the doorway—wearing actual clothes this time, thank Salazar—with a brow raised and arms crossed over his chest.

 

“Potter,” says Draco with a nod, his eyes not quite meeting the saviour’s.

 

“Malfoy,” replies Potter, indicating for Draco to sit down. He does, and reaches for his satchel where he’s kept his design plans. “Do you want anything? Tea?”

 

“Your house-elf already asked,” Draco responds. “No, thank you.” He pulls out the designs and, after a quick _Scourgify_ , lays them onto the coffee table. It’s still dusty, but he knows he won’t get it clean without a bit of manual labour, which he has no desire for right now. “I didn’t know you were allowed to have a house-elf, with Granger and all that.”

 

Potter shrugs. “I pay Kreacher a living wage. He goes off on his own for some weekends, but absolutely refuses to leave Grimmauld Place in the week. He’s lived here all his life. I like having him around, he makes the place less lonely. He’s good company and a right laugh after some Firewhisky.”

 

Draco narrows his eyes. “You know, Potter, there’s this thing called friends. I thought you had lots of those.”

 

“I do!” Potter protests, his face turning angry. “They don’t live here, though. And why are _you_ of all people questioning my ability to have friends?”

 

The statement stabs Draco directly in his heart. It’s sharp and it hurts because it’s _true_. He would be lying to himself if he were to say he’s never been jealous of the company which Gryffindors seem to always find themselves in. Slytherins have never been very jaunty or extroverted, keeping more to small groups. Of course, Draco had had Vince, Greg, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy in school. But then the war had happened; Vince died in the Fiendfyre, Greg fled to eastern Europe after his father was reprimanded, Blaise found himself in the Muggle banking industry, and Theo continued his illegal escapades in Northern Ireland, away from the watchful eye of the reconstructed Ministry. So now, Draco has Pansy—Blaise, sometimes, if he’s willing to take his attention away from the City for more than five seconds—and his construction team members, who probably hate him for being associated with the Dark Lord. Even after a childhood of loneliness, he feels he’s currently at his most recluse.

 

He swallows, looking down at his polished shoes. He knows the expression on his face is one of pain and shame, because Potter immediately coughs and stutters. “I’m sorry,” he says. The statement actually sounds genuine. “I didn’t... er, I didn’t mean it.”

 

“It’s okay,” Draco replies with a shrug. “S’true.”

 

“Doesn’t mean it’s a nice thing to say. I really am sorry.”

 

“Whatever.” Draco frowns at his own words. “Thank you, I mean,” he adds.

 

Potter just swallows and nods. “Erm, should we look at the designs?”

 

“Right. Yes.”

 

The blond unrolls each parchment one by one, starting with the basement. Draco explains to Potter the changes he’ll be making to the kitchen, including a smaller, built-in eating area to allow for a greater cooking area. As he makes his way through each change, from wall colour to cabinet materials, Potter is silent save for the occasional question of clarification or hum of agreement. He listens intently as they move from the basement to the ground, first, second, and third floors. He gives his input on a few occasions—like a colour-changing paint for the room on the second floor which will become Teddy Lupin’s—but other than that, Draco does most of the talking. He’s glad for it; he’s doing what he likes, he’s doing what he does _well_. To have Harry Potter interrupting every statement and questioning every design decision would be nothing short of agonising. Thankfully, the Golden Boy has learnt to hold his tongue.

 

“Now,” says Draco, smoothing out the fourth floor designs. “This is what I have for your rooms.” He has to admit to himself, he’s pretty proud of the design. He’s arranged the front room—Regulus Black’s old room—as a sitting and dressing room, complete with a Muggle television. “The bedroom actually doesn’t need many changes,” he explains. “We’ll repurpose the old floors, clean up the wallpaper, and swap out that atrocious dirty old mattress. Seriously, Potter, I can’t believe you’ve been sleeping on that all these years. The bed is in great condition though, so we’ll keep that.”

 

“Good,” says Potter. “I like that bed.”

 

Draco looks up, finds Potter staring at him, then quickly looks back down. He bites his lip and clears his throat. “As I was saying earlier, most of the furniture in the house is old but high quality and _essential_ to the house’s magical core. Any attempt at removing the bigger pieces will most likely be met with retribution. Pure-blood homes aren’t privy to change, so that arch between the rooms is going to be a right pain in the arse.”

 

“You _can_ do it though, right?”

 

“Of course I can do it,” Draco snaps.

 

Potter holds up his hands in surrender and leans back. “Christ, Malfoy, I wasn’t doubting you! Was just checking.”

 

“I’m the wizarding world’s best interior architectural designer,” says Draco, “I think I can handle it.”

 

“Right. Okay. Erm, should we move on to the loft?”

 

“Yes, let’s do that,” Draco agrees.

 

Potter stands and leads them up the many stairs to the top floor of the house. As they pass the fourth floor, Draco deliberately averts his eyes away from Potter’s backside as it ascends up the spiral staircase before him. Just knowing what sits beyond the door behind him does not sit well; he hopes Potter will at least have the courtesy to move his distasteful objects somewhere else before work begins on the house.

 

“Ron and Hermione came by the other day to help me clean up the loft. Hermione is much better with cleaning spells than me. You can actually walk through it now.” Potter says this with a smug grin, as if he’s proud of being a completely average human being. Draco scoffs, but as he looks around the loft, he must admit it seems to be much better. The old brooms are gone, there’s only one owl cage now—which appears to have had an impressively strong _Scourgify_ used on it—and the yellowed parchments have been neatly rolled and placed in a few boxes along the far wall. The rest of the clutter is pushed together in one massive pile rather than multiple tiny tripping hazards as it had been before.

 

“Is this all yours?” Draco asks, picking up a grubby goblet. It looks atrocious, but with a quick wave of his wand, he realises it’s actually very high quality, probably goblin-made. Closer inspection reveals the Black family crest.

 

“No. Most of it is just stuff Mundungus Fletcher never got around to stealing. Slimy git, I never liked him. Dumbledore allowed him to stay, though.”

 

“Dumbledore allowed a lot of things,” says Draco quietly, setting the goblet down and turning to look at Potter. He knows now about the Muggles, the horrible things they did to Potter. Though a private man, Potter did one interview on Lee Jordan’s wireless programme where he spoke of his earlier childhood, life at Hogwarts, and his battles with the most infamous dark wizard of all time. Back at Hogwarts, Draco never would have guessed the things Potter was dealing with, the amount of hatred he dealt with in a place where he was meant to be safest….

 

Potter snorts—he actually _snorts_ —and tosses his head back. “You don’t even know the beginning of it, Malfoy.” It’s not the reaction Draco had been expecting. The other man is staring at Draco intensely and biting down on his lip. A sly grin has reached his face, and he gestures around the room. “So, what’s your plan with this disaster of a place?”

 

Shaking himself out of the headspace he’d found himself in for a brief moment, Draco quickly unrolls his parchment and walks to the front of the space, pointing to where he intends to add a window. Just like earlier, Potter pays close attention as Draco goes into more elaborate detail, explaining the technicalities of elements both Muggle and wizarding. He seems most excited about the large bookshelf which Draco intends on repurposing to fit neatly against the eaves of the space. “I know you can’t read, Potter, but it will make a very nice design feature. You can display all your heroic awards on its shelves.”

 

“Very funny, Malfoy.”

 

“I wasn’t joking,” he says with a straight face.

 

Potter just laughs, shaking his head. “Git,” he mumbles. “Come on,” he says with a wave of his hand. “We’ve been at this for hours. Let’s have lunch.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s half past two. We’ve been going over designs since ten in the morning. I’m tired and grumpy, and I’ll bet you are too because no matter _what_ you say, you pure-bloods _always_ get irritable when you’re hungry. So let’s have lunch.”

 

“What are you getting at, Potter?” asks Draco, raising an eyebrow. He’s sceptical of the other wizard and is tempted to cast a diagnostic spell to make sure Potter hasn’t completely lost his marbles. “What are you planning to do with me?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Malfoy, it’s just lunch!”

 

“I’m sorry but I will have to pass,” Draco replies. He gestures to his parchments. “I need to drop these designs off to my team.”

 

Potter scoffs. “Bullshit.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Bullshit. They can wait one hour.” With that, Potter turns and begins descending down the stairs. Once again, Draco is left to ponder what is going on in Potter’s head behind those stupid glasses. Sighing, he makes his way down to the ground floor, planning to ignore Potter’s invitation and instead have a relaxing afternoon to himself at home. He is about to let himself out of the house when— _crack!_ Kreacher, the old house-elf, Apparates directly in front of him, waving his hands frantically.

 

“No! Mr. Malfoy must not be leaving yet. Mr. Malfoy is to have lunch with Mr. Potter. Kreacher has made Mr. Malfoy his favourite. Kreacher has been cooking all day.”

 

Draco is about to protest, but the house-elf is adamant. He quickly pulls him towards the dining room, where the distinctive smell of truffle is wafting from. Draco nearly faints as the delicious scent hits him like a Bludger; he’d been so focused on his work that he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. When he walks into the room, Potter is grimacing at him from his spot at the table. In front of him is probably the most beautiful meal Draco has ever seen.

 

Draco turns to the house-elf in shock and amazement. “Kreacher, how did you know venison is my favourite?”

 

“Kreacher remembers from when Mrs. Malfoy was a little girl, she is always loving when Kreacher makes venison.”

 

“Amazing,” Draco replies with a genuine smile. He sits down compliantly when Kreacher pulls out his chair for him, his stomach growling as he eyes the feast displayed before him. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

 

Potter is quiet and staring down at his plate as they begin to eat, which Draco is grateful for. However, he can’t help but notice the other man’s behaviour is quite peculiar. It takes a few minutes of awkward small talk before Draco realises what’s amiss.

 

“Potter,” he says. “ _You_ invited _me_ for lunch. So why aren’t you eating your venison?”

 

Indeed, Potter has not touched his fillet.

 

“Just doesn’t agree with me,” he says simply.

 

Draco rolls his eyes and takes another bite with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

 

Their lunch continues just like that for another hour, painfully slow and awkward. They attempt to discuss the house, but it’s so distracting watching Potter just drag his knife and fork back and forth through the mushroom sauce. Draco would leave if it weren’t for the fact that it just might be the best venison he’s ever had in his entire life. He makes a mental note to do something special for Kreacher in the re-design. Once his plate is cleared and he thanks the house-elf again, he and Potter both stand and head for the door. Draco awkwardly shakes Potter’s hand after donning his cloak.

 

“See you Monday?” Potter asks.

 

“My team and I will be over in the early morning to get started.”

 

Potter nods, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. Draco tries not to be distracted by the flexing of his muscles beneath his ratty t-shirt. “Well then... erm, bye?”

 

“Goodbye, Potter. Thank you for lunch.”

 

Draco turns to leave, Potter remaining in the doorway with a stiff wave. Just as he turns to Disapparate back to Blackheath, he hears Potter’s distinct shout of “Kreacher, _venison?!”_.

 

He arrives home craving a bath and, oddly enough, a really long wank.


	4. Chapter 4

Monday morning comes after a long weekend of fitful and too-hot sleeps, abandoned cups of tea, and a stack of Muggle books that would’ve caused Lucius Malfoy to implode. The dark images he’s seen are still ingrained in Draco’s mind as he nibbles at a stale croissant he’s had stored in the back of his cupboard for a few days. He hasn’t been able to get Potter out of his thoughts, and more importantly, Potter’s _bloody wardrobe!_ It’s utterly dreadful. He can’t relax for more than five minutes without imagining those things, those _horrid_ things, their rich leather held tightly by dark hands as they are laid down on pale bare flesh, marking it, scorching it.

 

Pansy had come over Sunday evening, bringing with her a great assortment of harnesses and whips. When Draco had asked what brought it all on, she’d simply told him he needed to be aware of what he was getting into.

 

“I’m not getting into anything,” he’d told her harshly. “Potter is a blubbering buffoon with bad hair and a serious case of too much hero worship combined with good looks. And then he thinks he can just tie anyone up. It’s ghastly.”

 

Pansy’s reply echoes eerily in his mind. _There are two sides to Harry_ _Potter. Which one do you want?_

 

Draco coughs and has to steady himself at his breakfast table; he feels as if he’s coming down ill. It’s too hot and he’s too exhausted but there’s a strange sort of energy jolting repeatedly through him which he can’t calm. Even a bath with the salts his mother had sent him from the South of France was not helpful. He is pent up like a coil, and it’s beginning to set off his magic. It’s been a strange few days of wanting and frustration; Harry Potter has stuck himself to the forefront of Draco’s mind, and it seems no amount of prying and wrestling can remove him, especially when Draco has two fingers up his arse.

 

Draco has a large coffee from his favourite place in his hand and a crick in his back when he Apparates to the street in front of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Ahead of him, wearing a mix of Muggle and wizarding clothes, are his four team members.

 

“Morning, Sir,” chant Muggleborn twins Olive and Perrie Foster. They were in Hufflepuff a few years ahead of Draco and had spent the years leading up to and during the War hiding in rural Yorkshire with their older Muggle brother. Upon returning to wizarding society in late 1998, Draco sought them out for their knowledge of Muggle construction as he began his life as a designer. They remind him of the Weasley twins, of something which he’ll never forgive himself. He sometimes struggles with their antics, not because they are particularly bothersome, but because the memories inflict a type of agony that is comparable to the Cruciatus Curse.

 

Draco replies with a nod and a stiff smile to the two witches. They’re always so cheerful and bubbly, like they _actually_ enjoy spending time with him because he is a genuinely good person, not because he has accommodating work hours and gives them a hefty paycheck. He often wonders what they say about him behind his back; whatever it is, he doesn’t blame them.

 

Next to Olive and Perrie are Anthony Goldstein and Adrian Pucey, both familiar to Draco from Hogwarts. Like the Fosters, they too are very friendly towards Draco. Pucey is not so surprising—they played Quidditch together in school—but Goldstein… well, he is exceptionally companionable, which is shocking, to say the least.

 

He is surrounded constantly by good, wholehearted, earnest people. He may not consider them friends, and they may all secretly hate him behind his back, but Draco is happy to have them. They make his work that much more rewarding.

 

When they move into the house, Potter is waiting for them at the dining table. He is at his most put together yet, wearing a pair of dark Muggle jeans and a bright orange Chudley Cannons shirt. His hair, of course, is still atrocious. Draco has to bite his tongue to keep from letting out a strange noise when his eyes meet Potter’s.

 

“Anthony?” Potter says in surprise when he notices Goldstein.

 

“Hiya, Harry!” says Goldstein, stepping forward to pull Potter in for a hug. “It’s been so long. Great to see you, mate.”

 

“Likewise. I didn’t know you worked for Malfoy?”

 

“Yeah, it’s good work. And Draco is a great boss.”

 

Draco clears his throat loudly as the two wizards proceed to have a conversation with each other, completely ignoring everyone else in the room. Draco looks over at Pucey and the Fosters for help. They offer him a shrug, a small giggle, and nothing else. Draco clears his throat again, startling Potter and Goldstein out of their conversation. Goldstein smiles shyly in apology to Draco whilst Potter just gives him an outrageous look that borders on pained. It’s slightly sickening.

 

“Shall I lead my team through?” asks Draco.

 

“Right!” replies Potter, shaking his head, causing his hair to be in even more disarray. “Of course. The house. Erm…”

 

At this, Draco just rolls his eyes and pushes in past Potter. They gather in the kitchen where Draco unrolls a multitude of parchments. Most of them are plans, a few are contracts he needs Potter to sign.

 

Potter is silent as he picks up a quill and scratches his name messily across the line Draco points to. He bites his lip, as if it’s hard work writing something as elementary as one’s own name. “That all?” he asks, pointedly avoiding Draco’s gaze.

 

“That’s all,” replies Draco with a nod. “That signature means the deposit will be automatically transferred to my vault at Gringotts. The rest of the payment will come upon completion of the work. Now, it’s time to start.”

 

“Right. Er. I’ll just…” Potter waves his hands.

 

“I could use some help with stripping wallpaper, Harry,” says Goldstein, slapping his hand across Potter’s back. “Come on, the spells are pretty simple, it just takes a steady hand.” Potter smiles, nods, and the two disappear up the stairs.

 

Draco directs his attention to the other three with a roll of his eyes. “Right. Well, that’s settled, now that the inept has something to do.” They all giggle into their robes. “You all know what you’re doing? Got your plans?”

 

The Fosters and Pucey nod, and they all divide up into their own directions, blueprints, wands, and Muggle tools in hand. The day passes slowly, dust and the distinct sound of hammers and spells filling the old house from top to bottom. Draco directs almost all his time to the wall separating the two bedrooms on the fourth floor. He moves the offending wardrobe with a swish of his wand, directing it away and out of his sight, leaving the old wall bare and unassuming. To the ignorant mind, a simple _Diffindo_ would have it splintered away, but Draco does not have an ignorant mind.

 

Undoing the layers and layers of magic in the wall takes an interminable amount of time. It will no doubt be the hardest part of the redesign; wizarding houses do not like their structures changed. And blasting a hole between two rooms is _especially_ crass.

 

The task ends up being _gruelling._

 

“Erm, Malfoy?”

 

Draco groans, pausing his incantations and lowering his wand. It’s gone six in the evening and he’s still working on the first of at least fifty layers of spells in the wall. The house has quieted down, as has the dust, settling back atop abandoned furniture. His wrist and neck ache, and his voice is beginning to go after hours of incantations. He clears his throat and turns to look at Potter, whose head is poking around the corner. As usual, he looks ridiculous, with his glasses askew and flecks of paint and wood stuck in multiple places in his hair. Draco shouldn’t be thinking about what he’s seen over the weekend, but he is and it’s _horrible._

 

“Yes, Potter?” he responds, his voice surprisingly clear and steady. He hopes Potter doesn’t realise the way his fingers tap a quick and anxious pattern on his thigh. He catches a quick glance at the wardrobe again and clears his throat again.

 

“Uh, everyone has left. Are you… I mean… could I have my room back?”

 

Draco blinks. “Of course. I apologise. There’s quite a lot of intricate magic in this wall, I lost track of time.”

 

Potter nods, stepping into the room. “So… um.”

 

“I’ll just clean up and be on my way.” He avoids looking at Potter as he sweeps past him and up the stairs, wand already poised and ready to settle any stray bits of wood which could catch the unobservant wizard and send them tumbling down.

 

The loft is actually coming together, he realises when he enters; Potter has managed to clean up the remainder of the things over the weekend, and the Foster twins have made good work on the grubby walls using a combination of Muggle cleaners and advanced spellwork. As Draco moves forward to see how the shellwork for the future window has come along, a burst of light floods the room. He jumps back in brief surprise before settling again as he recognises the sharp antlers of Potter’s Patronus. The stag stares deep into Draco’s eyes, stamping its hoof and speaking with all the awkwardness of Potter’s voice through the day. “I, er, need to go somewhere,” says the stag. Draco actually laughs out loud at the drastic discrepancy between the regalness of the Patronus and the utter _idiocy_ of the voice coming from it. “Feel free to, you know, finish up here. And if you could do the standard locking spells when you leave, that would be good. Yeah. See you later. Bye.”

 

Almost immediately following, Draco hears the slam of the front door echoing through the old house. A plume of dust shoots into the air, and he coughs, cursing Potter and his inability to do _anything_ the normal way.

 

As he makes his way down each staircase, drifting his wand occasionally to clean up the odd congregation of dust or bits here and there, he ponders on Potter’s weird behaviour, wondering what on Earth he could be getting up to. Okay, so maybe it isn’t that weird, but still, Golden Boy and all, you’d think he can manage a conversation without running over his own words. Draco chooses to ignore any conversation they’ve had around… _that_ thing, where Potter has been strangely put together and… dare he say it, even _competent._

 

After clearing the kitchen, he heads back upstairs to collect his things. He lingers at the fourth floor, keeping an ear out for any activity elsewhere in the house. He casts _Homenum-Revelio_ silently, but can detect nothing. It’s been at least five minutes since the Patronus had fled and the door had shut behind Potter; in all likeliness, there is no one in the house, save for Kreacher who has strangely been singing Muggle songs in the kitchen all day—something about a seventeen-year-old queen who dances. Still, Draco moves with precision, opening the bedroom door with an extra couple of silencing charms thrown meticulously around himself. He eyes the wardrobe with a vengeance; the bloody disgraceful thing has been taunting him all weekend. Even in his haste to move it far away earlier, it’d been painstakingly holding almost all his attention throughout the day.

 

It stands alone innocently enough amongst the other pieces of furniture. The intricately carved mahogany is so immaculate despite its age and the grime which covers the rest of the house. The knowledge of what sits inside such a sacred and beautiful piece stirs something strange and unfamiliar in the pit of Draco’s stomach. However, it doesn’t stop him as he quickly moves towards it, tentatively reaching out to trace his long fingers against its curved filigree handles.

 

Shutting his eyes, Draco swallows sharply as he grasps the door open, the hinges creaking in protest as he does so. He takes a few shuddering breaths before his eyes flutter open.

 

It’s much the same as last time. Whatever laziness Potter has developed for literally every other part of his life has seemingly not affected his impressive collection of… _items_. The things are clean, shiny, and neatly arranged. Draco still doesn’t understand what most of it means—during his weekend reading, he’d conveniently skipped over anything which wasn’t entirely obvious, and Pansy hadn’t brought over anything specifically outrageous. As his eyes land on a black leather harness, his breath jumps. He flexes his fists at his sides, the urge to reach out and _touch_ just biting incessantly at him. He remembers the still Muggle photographs of slashed backsides and bruised wrists and he suddenly can’t breathe.

 

“See anything you like, Malfoy?”

 

Draco springs away from the wardrobe, frantically clutching his chest. “I’m sorry!” he shouts without thinking. He dares to look at the doorway where Potter is standing, dressed in all black trousers, tailcoat jacket, and pointed toe boots. His eyes are narrowed at Draco, taunting him; he is a completely different man from the dishevelled and messy dimwit he’d been just twenty minutes earlier. He takes one step forward into the room. Draco still can’t breathe.

 

“I asked you to lock up, not to go through my things.” Potter’s voice is steady, almost commanding in tone.

 

“What are you still doing here?” Draco asks, his voice taking on a strange pitch.

 

Potter crosses the room easily, and Draco takes a step back, watching as the other man opens the wardrobe further and takes what looks like a strange necklace off a hook. He slips it into his satchel. “Forgot my favourite ball gag. A special request by my sub for tonight.”

 

Draco’s skin goes clammy. “Are you seriously doing _that_ tonight?”

 

“Well that was the plan.” Potter crosses his arms and cocks his hip to one side as he stares at Draco with a brow raised. “Now if you’re done being a little sneak…”

 

“I am not a sneak!”

 

“Malfoy, you’re going through my private things.”

 

“Well maybe you should keep them locked up, _Potter!_ ” Draco spits his name.

 

At this, Potter lets out a jarring laugh, one that echoes deep in Draco’s bones, leaving him raw, exposed. “Christ, after last time I figured you wouldn’t set foot near them again. Curiosity killed the ferret, I guess.”

 

“Do _not_ call me ferret, Potter, or I will _hex_ you into the next century!”

 

Potter laughs again. With a flick of his wand, the wardrobe slams shut, the sound of a multitude of locking charms sweeping across the piece. “I really need to get going,” he says. “Please do the locking charms on the house when you leave, in case you’ve forgotten already. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns towards the door, then quickly pauses and looks back at Draco. “And Malfoy, if you really want to know about the toys, all you have to do is ask.”

 

With that, Potter leaves, the tell-tale sound of his pointed boots tapping through the wood of the house and out the front, the echo of the closing door ricocheting through number twelve, Grimmauld Place.


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the week carries on strangely. Potter is active in the re-design, laughing with the twins as he helps them to tear down the old wallpaper on the second floor and chatting amicably with Pucey and Goldstein as they sweep the third floor bathroom for any past hidden jinxes. In fact, the only person he doesn’t enthusiastically interact with is Draco. He completely ignores the blond, only discussing the broadest of details and even then, constantly glancing down at his stupid feet and playing with his stupid hair. It’s as if their conversation on Monday had never happened, as if Potter hadn’t completely mucked everything up and said _that_ to him. He’s acting nervous again, like a first year about to be sorted, and it’s infuriating for Draco to deal with.

 

Every evening he comes home and invests himself in the books he’d borrowed from the Muggle library, using Polyjuice potion, of course. He even goes so far as Apparating outside a club in Camden Town, his dragonhide boots and slim trousers certainly out of place amongst the leather and rubber queueing around the corner and into the venue.

 

The following Tuesday, Draco has had enough. He knows he’s being distracted by Potter’s weird behaviour and his stray thoughts—that morning he’d misdirected a spell, accidentally sending an old bed post splintering into a million different directions. Potter’s hardly said a coherent word since their strange encounter in the room on the fourth floor the previous week. So, instead of following his colleagues out to the Apparating point, he corners Potter in the dusty kitchen, ready for some answers. Potter, however, is too quick for him.

 

“Do you want to go out Friday?” he asks. It’s sudden, sharp. Draco is taken aback. Leave it to Harry fucking Potter to completely shift his behaviour the second they’re alone together.

 

“What?”

 

“Friday. Do you want to go out?”

 

Draco feels his skin heat. He swallows harshly; this is what he’s prepared for, he reminds himself. He’s ready. He’s read the books. He’s had the dreams. He’s experimented. “Where?” he asks, attempting to keep the quiver out of his voice. It doesn’t go very well, and he knows he wavers, even though it’s only one syllable.

 

“A Muggle place,” says Potter with a nod. “It’s good, I think you’ll like it. I go almost every Friday.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Potter’s face lights up like a little child. He looks like an absolute idiot and Draco wonders how in the hell this man intends to tie him up and have his filthy way with him when he looks like _that_ almost all the time. There is no comparing him to the Potter he associates with that damned wardrobe. _Which one do you want?_ Pany’s voice echoes in his mind. He doesn’t know…. Maybe he wants both.

 

He doesn’t tell anyone of his Friday evening plans with Potter, not even Pansy. He and the team finish early that day, and as he attempts to control the dust that’s gathering on the first floor with a sweep of his wand, Potter’s hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder. “I’ll pick you up at eight. You’re in Blackheath, right? Dress casually.”

 

Back at his flat, Draco struggles to find the right thing to wear. He briefly considers Floo-calling Pansy, but ultimately decides against it. This is a one-time thing, just to see if he likes it. Maybe then he can discuss it further with Pansy. Perhaps she can make sense of the utter _rubbish_ Draco gets in his brain every time he sees Potter. He settles for tight black trousers, a flowing charcoal grey shirt, pointed dragonhide boots, and a black wool coat. It’s a bit too casual for a night out, he thinks, but it’s comfortable, Muggle, and dark. The books had all said that dark clothing was preferred.

 

As the old grandfather clock in his hall ticks closer and closer to eight, Draco stares at his reflection in the mirror. His white blond hair falls haphazardly to one side. He’s long foregone the gel—it had always made his hair stiff and heavy, pulling his face to look as if he’d ‘just smelt the inside of Filch’s soiled pants’, as Pansy had so eloquently put it in their sixth year. Now, he wears it loose but still styled. It’s the difference between him and Potter, who obviously doesn’t give two shits about his appearance and that absolute _mess_ he calls hair. Draco at least has the audacity to brush his hair and use the slightest bit of styling product.

 

He frowns now, pulling at the strands and trying to move them to a position that looks acceptable. He feels stupid, out of his element, standing there wondering what the night holds in store for him. Is his hair even going to matter? Probably not. Still, he fusses with it for another five minutes before a knock at his front door makes him jump. Taking one last definitely-not-nervous-at-all-thank-you-very-much look in the mirror, he turns and opens the door.

 

Potter is stood a few metres back from the door and is looking up. He meets Draco’s eyes and smiles. “Nice place,” he says, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his ripped blue jeans.

 

“Thanks,” replies Draco politely, though his voice gives away slightly when he meets Potter’s bright green gaze. He shrugs a hunter green scarf on and grabs his keys—he prefers a mix of both Muggle and wizarding security. He steps out onto the front step, calling a soft ‘goodbye, Vindictus’ to his owl as he shuts the door, slides the key into the lock, and taps it twice with his wand with a quick _Colloportus_.

 

“Vindictus?” Potter asks with a snort as Draco turns back to him.

 

“Leave it to you to not know the history of the wizarding world, Potter. Vindictus Viridian, famous 18th century potioneer and Hogwarts professor.”

 

“Ah,” says Potter, lightly touching Draco’s hip as they move down the steps and to the front garden. “I think I may have spoken to his portrait at some point, back in Hogwarts. You look nice, by the way.”

 

Draco just swallows and nods tightly, feeling as if Potter’s fingers have burnt a hole right through his waxed denim trousers.

 

“Side-Along?” asks Potter, reaching out his arm.

 

“Yes, I suppose,” replies Draco. He cautiously loops his arm through Potter’s, wondering why in Salazar Slytherin’s name he is doing this, and the next second, is brought into the gut-wrenching swirl of Apparition.

 

When he gets his bearings again, he is stood just behind a large tree, streams of Muggles just metres away on an illuminated gravel path. “Green Park,” Potter explains. “Buckingham Palace is somewhere over that way.” He points vaguely in one direction then tugs at Draco to pull him the other.

 

As they walk, Draco is enamoured with the liveliness of central London on a Friday evening. He of course has grown accustomed to Muggles in the years since the war, but it is rare he makes his way into the heart of the city for reasons besides visits to Diagon Alley; he is, after all, _always_ working. He sticks close to Potter, hyper aware of the herds of tourists heading down Piccadilly towards the theatres. They stop at a busy zebra crossing when a woman stumbles into him from behind, her arms laden with green bags and her face pinched. He jumps forward, falling into Potter, who seems completely comfortable in this environment amongst the throngs of people who do not know his name or what he’s done.

 

“Sorry,” the woman says in a nasally American accent before organising herself and moving to cross the road. She jumps back as a black vehicle beeps furiously from her right, again falling into Potter and him.

 

“Do you need some help?” Potter asks with a cheery smile, and Draco has to roll his eyes because of _course_ Potter has to help every damned person on this entire planet, even clueless American Muggle tourists.

 

The woman briefly stares as she catches Potter’s eye, but quickly waves them both off with a ‘no, thank you’ as she catches a look at Draco huddled close to him. She moves to cross the street again, this time taking extra caution to look right first, and disappears from their sight.

 

They continue their walk down the road. To their left is the park fence lit by street lamps, and to their right is an array of buildings both old and modern. Draco admires the architecture of a grey Edwardian building, momentarily forgetting where he’s going and what he’s about to do, when Potter pulls him along a small, dark road away from the herds of Muggle tourists. Draco frowns. “Where _exactly_ are we going?” he asks, looking suspiciously at a nearby boarded-up place. Two men are stood beneath its awning, smoking and drinking from cloudy pint glasses which have definitely seen better days. He bristles and shivers, beginning to wonder if he’s made a very bad decision.

 

“It’s just up here on the left!” Potter says, turning to give Draco one of his huge grins. Draco’s been seeing them quite often, recently.

 

When they arrive outside a white bricked building, Draco is confused. Potter doesn’t seem to notice, pulling Draco in through a red door beneath an illuminated sign reading ‘New Taj Mahal’. He’s even more confused when they make their way down a narrow staircase and into a cosy and colourfully lit restaurant. “What are we doing here, Potter?” Draco asks quietly, pulling at his shirt collar. The restaurant is too hot. He hopes the hidden area has at least cracked a window.

 

But Potter doesn’t take him to a hidden area. Instead, he pulls a chair out for Draco at a small table placed against what was once a fireplace. It’s been messily tiled over, Draco notes. He wonders if he can get away with casting a small spell to straighten it out without the Muggle waiter who’s coming their way noticing.

 

“Harry!” the waiter says happily when he spots them. _Damn._ He comes bustling over, eyes Draco, and gives Potter a look that Draco can only describe as playful. Perhaps this is Potter’s precursor, a sort of preamble to the scene.

 

“Have you ever had Indian food before?” Potter asks.

 

Draco shakes his head, glancing at the menu.

 

“It’s my favourite, and it makes me feel closer to my dad,” says Potter. He turns to the waiter. “Two Kingfisher lagers please, Ravi.” The waiter nods quickly with a smile and hustles away. Potter’s eyes lock with Draco’s again. “He was Indian—my dad. My aunt and uncle never told me about that; they were against magic _and_ they were racist. They made me afraid of ever asking about my own skin colour. But Sirius made sure I knew, in the time we were together. He grew up with my dad, you know! Apparently my dad’s mum taught him everything. He was really good at curries. I miss him.”

 

Draco merely nods, unsure why Potter has decided to suddenly ramble about his depressing family history. He feels uncomfortable, like he’s imposing on a sort of personal, intimate moment. Potter continues, though.

 

“I’d like to take one of those Muggle courses sometime, the ones that teach you how to cook. I’m decent at the British basics—had to be at my aunt and uncle’s—but I want to know more. And I’m rubbish at keeping clean. It’s a good thing I have Kreacher to keep me together. Don’t tell Hermione.”

 

“I’d expect nothing less from you,” Draco replies.

 

Potter chuckles, his eyes shining bright behind his glasses. “Seriously, I feel completely useless since I’m not working strict hours anymore. I mean, you’ve seen the house, it’s a tip.” Draco remembers the headlines from a few years back when Potter had suddenly left his position as an Auror. They haven’t discussed it yet; in fact, Draco realises, he has no idea what Potter is doing with his life now. It’s never come up, and he’s always been too focused on Potter doing… other things. Potter leans back in his chair, stretching his arms up and over his head. Draco tries desperately not to glance down to where his plaid shirt— _seriously?—_ has risen up, revealing warm, golden skin beneath. He fails, and Potter’s brow raises. “Distracted?”

 

“Shut up, Potter.” He swallows. “So, what _are_ you doing for work these days?”

 

Potter’s face practically lights up. “Hermione, Ron, and I have been working to set up a sort of community centre. It’s been in the planning process for years now, ever since I left the DMLE. It’s designed to link the Muggle and wizarding worlds together more coherently and provide any amenities that one might require from either worlds—there’ll be classes for parents of Muggleborns, therapy which uses Muggle methods, that kind of thing. We really needed it in the years following the war, but I guess we were focused on other things first and foremost.” Potter shrugs. “I’m actually meeting with our committee next weekend; we have a few viewings for potential spaces lined up.”

 

“That’s… actually brilliant,” Draco replies honestly.

 

Potter’s face lights up even more at the compliment. “I have to say, I was surprised you accepted my invitation to go out so quickly. I thought I was going to have to woo you.”

 

“Malfoys can’t be _wooed_ , that’s preposterous.”

 

“I know one who can be,” Potter says with a wink.

 

Before Draco can respond with the obvious question of ‘what do you _want_ with me, Potter?!’, the waiter comes back with two beers and sets them between them. “Have you decided on your meal?”

 

“I’ll have the lamb rogan josh,” says Potter, without even glancing at the menu. “And some garlic naan for us to share as well, thank you.” The waiter looks to Draco, who has no idea what he’s doing.

 

“Uh,” he says, his eyes scanning the mysterious dishes, looking for _something_ recognisable. It’s all meats with… something else. Something else which he doesn’t know. He kicks Potter underneath the table, and the other man jumps before grinning and looking up at the waiter again.

 

“And he’ll have the mughlai chicken.”

 

The waiter winks at them both, promises the food will be out shortly, and disappears.

 

“Don’t worry,” says Potter. “It’s mild.”

 

Draco sips his beer; it’s nice, for Muggle alcohol, though has nothing on a sickly sweet butterbeer on a cold winter’s day. “Next time you can take me somewhere I actually know what I’m eating.” The words are out before he can think twice.

 

“Next time?” asks Potter. He’s _still_ smiling.

 

“I… I d-didn’t mean,” Draco stutters.

 

Potter reaches across the table, his fingers softly grazing the top of Draco’s hand. The touch is so unbelievably gentle and intimate. “I’m kidding, Draco. I want there to be a next time. If that is okay with you.”

 

Draco chokes because Potter’s just said his first name and Potter wants to do _this_ again even though it hasn’t even started yet and Potter is _touching him_ and it’s the best feeling he’s ever had _._ Circe’s tits, it really is too hot in this restaurant. He manages a simple ‘yes’ in reply to Potter—should he call him Harry in his mind now?—and stands suddenly. “Is there a toilet?” he manages to say, words strained but coherent. Potter’s eyebrows furl, but he points to a door nonetheless.

 

Apologising, Draco quickly stands and hurries into the toilet, hastily locking the door behind him with a shaky breath. When he turns and looks in the mirror, he can see that his skin has gone pinker than an expensive bottle of Amortentia. He rolls the sleeves of his shirt up, clenching his fists and taking slow breaths. The man in the mirror is so unlike the Draco Malfoy he has built for himself in the years since the war; he looks young, disheveled, _raw_. He’s spent so much time trying to eliminate his past that he’s forgotten what he looks like when he’s… alive—how he feels when he’s flying, drunk, or dare he think it, _in love._

 

Is he in love with Potter?

 

Absolutely not. Probably not. Maybe. They don’t even _talk._ It’s not like Draco has been obsessed with him since he was eleven-years-old.

 

And besides, Potter doesn’t want anything to do with him. He’s just there to fix his house and maybe be a toy on the side.

 

 _Nothing is going to come of this_ , he tells himself, over and over again. _Potter isn’t looking for something more._

 

After splashing water on his warm cheeks and ensuring his colour has returned to normal, Draco straightens his shoulders, pastes a look of indifference on his features, and returns to their table.

 

“You alright?” Potter asks. In front of him are two colourful steaming dishes and a plate of flatbread. It all smells strange yet incredible.

 

“I’m okay,” Draco replies steadily, sitting back in his seat with his back straight and formal. He eyes the food. “This looks… ethnic.”

 

“You’ll love it,” Potter replies, and starts spooning chunks of chicken onto a plate for him.

 

Potter is right; he _loves_ the food. He may even like it better than the venison and truffle that Kreacher had prepared. It tastes so unlike anything he’s ever had before. The amount of flavour is so shocking, he doesn’t even speak as he eats every last bite, and even stealing a piece of Potter’s darker, _much_ spicier dish. It burns his mouth and his eyes water as he splutters, reaching manically for his beer. Potter laughs through the entire ordeal, his eyes sparkling from behind his wonky glasses.

 

He almost forgets. As they stand to leave, thanking the waiter, Draco lets himself believe, briefly, that this is a date. Potter’s hand lightly touches his hip as they ascend the staircase, leading them back up and out onto the dark London street. _This is not a date,_ he repeats to himself in his head over and over again as they walk slowly back towards the park, discussing arbitrary things and bickering ever so slightly about Potter’s atrocious hair. Their hands somehow end up entangled; Potter’s hand is warm, soft on the palms and calloused on the fingertips. Draco tells a joke and Potter laughs, throwing his head back. The night time lights dance off his green eyes, glowing. The park is nearly empty now. They’re alone, Draco realises. He holds his breath as Potter grips his arm at the Apparition point. The familiar pull beneath his navel is dizzying, and he shuts his eyes tight as he lets the magic wash over him. When he opens his eyes again, he’s shocked to find himself on the doorstep of his flat. Potter is still touching him.

 

“I had a lovely time tonight,” says Potter. His breath is ghosting the shell of Draco’s ear, and this is it, Draco thinks. It’s about to start.

 

But then, it doesn’t. Potter pulls away, gives Draco the smallest of smiles, and turns and Apparates away before Draco can say a single word.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco nearly falls flat on his face when he hastily stumbles out of the Floo and into Pansy’s living room. On the sofa across from him, Pansy’s lips are attached to some girl’s neck and her hand is up the girl’s skirt.

 

“Out!” Draco shouts. “Leave! Now!”

 

The other girl sits up and scoffs when she sees Draco. She straightens her top, stands, grabs her shoes, and waltzes past Draco and towards the Floo without a word as Pansy waves and winks from the sofa.

 

“Don’t worry,” says Pansy as the girl leaves in a swirl of flames. She fixes Draco with a glare. “It’s not like I was busy or anything.” In annoyance, she stands and moves to the table in the corner. She comes back a moment later with a lit black cigarette dangling between her long fingers.

 

“This is more important than your frolicking, Pansy,” Draco snaps.

 

“Merlin,” she replies with a scoff. “What’s gotten into you?”

 

“Potter!” Draco shrieks. “Potter is what’s gotten into me!”

 

Pansy’s eyes widen in shock, her jaw dropping so low it could hit the floor. Her voice is eerily quiet. “You… he… _no_ way. He did _not_ fuck you, did he? Salazar fucking Slytherin I will _murder_ him.”

 

“No.” Draco waves his hands. “I mean, he _didn’t_ fuck me, that’s the point. He was supposed to fuck me! What is he _fucking_ playing at?”

 

“He… what?”

 

“He didn’t fuck me, Pansy. I thought he was going to fuck me.”

 

“Okay, what the hell is going on here?” Pansy says with a frown. “Care to explain?”

 

Frustrated, Draco flops down onto the sofa dramatically and rubs at his forehead. “I went out with Potter tonight,” he explains. “We went to some Muggle restaurant in the middle of London. It was weird. And then… he just took me home and Apparated away. No suggestive grabs or anything.”

 

“You,” says Pansy with a raise of one delicately shaped eyebrow, “went on a _date?_ With Potter?” A smile slowly begins to spread across her face, only interrupted when she takes a long drag of her cigarette.

 

“What?” Draco says, horrified. “No. It wasn’t a date!”

 

“It sure _sounds_ like a date.”

 

“No. It wasn’t,” Draco insists.

 

“Do you want me to Floo-call him and ask?” Pansy stands, taunting, and Draco shrieks and leaps off of the sofa, tugging her back.

 

“Absolutely not!” he shouts. He needs a drink. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Pansy Parkinson.”

 

She lets out an enticing laugh and lets herself be sat down again. As if reading Draco’s mind, she waves her wand and a tumbler of Firewhisky sets itself down onto the table next to them. She nods her head towards it, and Draco takes the drink with earnest graciousness. It burns as it slides down his throat, settling him.

 

“I’m so lost,” he admits, his voice quieting.

 

“Tell me everything,” Pansy replies, taking his hand and tracing the veins that run atop it. In her other hand, her cigarette has run out. She flicks her wand again and another immediately replaces it. “How did this all even start? Was it the wardrobe?”

 

Draco’s skin heats as he chokes out an answer. “Yeah. I guess. I just… he was being so weird and nervous and _idiotic_. You remember how he was at school.”

 

“Oh yes, definitely. And yeah, he’s still a complete moron, don’t get me wrong. Just because he’s kinky and we get along well now doesn’t mean he’s not thick. Well, I mean, he _is_ thick, in more ways than one.” Pansy winks and Draco suddenly regrets coming here. “Sorry, back on track: Potter, still an idiot.”

 

“Yes, an idiot. But then every time I went back to the wardrobe—”

 

“Of course you went back to it.”

 

“ _Pansy!_ ”

 

“Sorry,” she drawls, sounding completely insincere.

 

Pansy crosses her leg over her knee, her sheer lycra tights emphasising the slim cut of her calf and trailing down to the sharp heel of her black stilettos. Draco often thinks about what a beautiful couple he and Pansy would’ve made, had they both been straight. Instead, he’s lusting over Harry Potter and his plaid shirts and mismatched socks, which is quite the downgrade.

 

“So, what is it _exactly_ that you want with Potter?” she asks. “Because it seems to me that you’re contradicting yourself. You’ve pined over him for like a decade and now that he’s making an effort, you just want him to fuck you? And that’s it?”

 

“No.” Draco frustratedly bites at his lip, gnawing at the skin before it comes loose and he tastes blood on his tongue. “This whole thing is a disaster,” he admits.

 

“You need to be forward with Potter,” Pansy reasons. “It seems like neither of you know what the fuck is going on. You’re on two separate agendas.”

 

“Why is he so… sudden though?” Draco asks, exasperated. “Doesn’t he have a world of wizards at hand to fuck whenever? Why’s he suddenly so interested in taking me on a date to Muggle London and buying me dinner and leaving me on my doorstep without even a kiss?”

 

“Ha,” Pansy shouts, “so you do admit it was a date!”

 

Pouting, Draco shrugs. “Maybe he’s just being nice so that I don’t hex him, and maybe he really doesn’t want anything to do with me besides fucking.”

 

“That’s bullshit, Draco Malfoy, and you know it.”

 

Pansy stands and moves to the bar to pour another two tumblers of Firewhisky. She comes back with them balanced perfectly in her arm, along with a tray of biscuits. Draco downs the whisky but ignores the biscuits. Once again, the burn is a relief. He really doesn’t like to drink too much, but fuck it, it’s Friday.

 

“Here’s the thing,” says Pansy, “I’ve spent a fair amount of time with Potter in the last couple of years, since our… interests are similar. And sure, he’s awkward and idiotic outside of the scene but the man sure does know how to fuck, if his subs have told me anything. But what they’ve also told me is that he is _incredibly_ pragmatic and impersonal. He had one serious relationship, near the beginning. It was a wizard from Chicago who was doing some sort of international relations thing at the Ministry.” Pansy waves her hands dismissively. “The two were unstoppable on the scene. But then one day the American wizard was just gone, and now Potter’s been solo for years. He of course gets his picking and choosing of subs, but they never last for more than a few nights. He’s in it for the scene and that’s it.”

 

“So, he likes to fuck without romance?”

 

Pansy nods, smoke curling in front of her face. “He’s passionate in the bed and the scene and that’s about it. He likes short-term play now, nothing more.”

 

Draco can’t help but feel a wave of disappointment rush through him. It’s as if he and Potter are completely out of sync with each other. Draco wants one thing but expects the other; and Potter is giving Draco what he really, _really_ wants; but from what Pansy is saying, Potter wants something else entirely, something quick and detached. Which is what Draco is asking for, right? Then _why_ is Potter being so _nice?_ It’s all stupidly confusing. “So you’re saying Potter wants to fuck me once and that’s it?”

 

“Circe’s tits, Draco, are you even _listening_ to me? It’s the opposite! He took you on a _date._ He wants to _date_ you. How many times must I scream it?”

 

Lips forming an ‘o’, Draco senses a shiver running from the top of his spine down to his tailbone. It’s all suddenly so much. “So, Potter _likes_ me?”

 

Pansy nods.

 

“And wants to date me?”

 

Pansy nods again, quicker.

 

“And he _doesn’t_ want to fuck me?”

 

This time, Pansy shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “You can be just as much of an idiot as him sometimes, I swear.” She picks up a biscuit and bites into it, her tongue darting out quickly to catch the escaping jam. “Potter likes you, wants to date you, and probably also wants to fuck you. You’re _different_ , Draco. You’re not just a sub he meets and wants to play with. He wants to be _with_ you. He’s just being careful because he knows you’re a stuck-up virgin with—”

 

“I am _not_ a stuck-up virgin!”

 

“Oi, I wasn’t finished.” Pansy takes a sip of her whisky and sticks her tongue out at him. “You _are_ a stuck-up virgin, one with huge trust and commitment issues. And you two have a fucked up history, remember? He almost killed you, Dra—”

 

“I almost killed him!”

 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy if you don’t stop interrupting me right this second I swear on Salazar Slytherin’s grave that I will hex you so hard you won’t even remember who Harry Potter is. And sit down!”

 

Draco realises he’s stood at some point and is pacing back and forth across Pansy’s living room. His hands have made their way to his hair and are tugging incessantly. He’s biting his lip again, too. “Sorry,” he replies sheepishly, sitting on the sofa once again.

 

“Thank you. You were stressing me out.”

 

Draco takes a biscuit; it’s soft and buttery, Deesey must have made them earlier in the day, he thinks. “So what do I do?” he asks his best friend.

 

Pansy smiles reassuringly. “Just take it as it goes,” she says. “I mean, Potter must see _something_ in you if he’s taking you out rather than just leading you straight to the bedroom. I think he really wants to get to know you. Let him. He’s actually a pretty neat guy. Besides,” she says with a wink, “you two would be hot together.”

 

A strong blush crosses Draco’s features. “Not sure how I feel about, you know… exhibitionism.”

 

“Shame,” Pansy says with a shrug.

 

Draco playfully shoves her and eats another biscuit. He feels at least a little bit better after his totally-not-out-of-line-and-over-dramatic-freak-out-session. “I am really interested in… you know… the tying up thing, though. And the hurting thing.” He blushes again.

 

“I know,” says Pansy. “I’ve known for a few years.”

 

“You _what?_ How? I didn’t even know.”

 

“I mean, it’s kind of obvious, babe. Everything about you screams ‘whiney sub who needs a cock up his arse to shut him up’. Call it a sub-dar.”

 

“Okay, I’ve done my research on all of this, but a sub-dar definitely doesn’t exist.”

 

“Does now.”

 

“Whatever.” Draco casts _Tempus_ and winces at how late it is. “I should get going.”

 

“Yes, please do. I need to convince Annabel to come back since you so rudely interrupted us earlier.”

 

“Sorry.” Draco takes one last biscuit and stands. “Tell Deesey these are incredible.”

 

“I can get you the recipe sometime,” says Pansy.

 

“That would be lovely.” Draco walks towards the fireplace. He grabs a handful of Floo powder and turns to his best friend one last time. “Thank you, Pansy,” he says, sincere, watching as she lights a third cigarette.

 

“Anytime, love.”

 

The green flames swirl around his legs as Draco is pulled into the Floo, tumbling through tunnels of magic and finally reappearing in his own flat. He crosses the room, pours himself another tumbler of Firewhisky, steps out of his shoes, and heads towards his bedroom. By the time his head hits the pillow, he is thoroughly drunk and thinking only of Harry Potter.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco realises that Pansy might _actually_ be right. The following Monday, the wardrobe is nowhere to be seen as Draco works on the wall separating the two rooms, and it continues to remain absent through the week. He’s made ample progress over the last few sessions; a few more focused hours should do it. It’s hard to focus though when the saviour of the Wizarding World keeps popping by to ask questions about his godson’s room. All traces of the anxiety and nerves from the previous weeks are gone; the saviour lingers annoyingly close—at least Draco used to think it was annoying. Now, he has to fight the urge to lean into Potter’s touch whenever he places a hand on his shoulder.

 

It’s gone half one in the afternoon on Friday and everyone has gathered in the dining room to eat a steak and kidney pie that Kreacher has prepared. Draco squares his shoulders and looks determinedly at the wall. He’s just undone the last layer of magic in it, and the next spell _should_ form an arch between the two rooms. He won’t join the others for lunch until he knows his hours of hard work have been successful.

 

“ _Arcus confabricorus_ ,” he whispers carefully, twisting his wand meticulously in a criss-cross pattern. He holds his breath as a burst of light flares from the centre of the wall, enveloping the room for a few long seconds. When the light dissolves, it is to Draco’s great relief that a perfect arch stands between him and Regulus Black’s old room. Natural light from the front window pours into the room, showing trails of dust, but Draco doesn’t care. The spell has worked. His largest task is finished—the hardest bit of _magic_ is over—and now he can focus on the creative design aspect of the remodel. He nods to himself, and turns to head downstairs for lunch and… runs straight into a rock solid chest.

 

“Whoa there,” says Potter, throwing his arms out to catch Draco as he falls forward into him.

 

Draco lets out a soft _oof! a_ t the collision.

 

“You alright there, Malfoy?” Potter asks, his stupid (adorable!) smile crossing his face. “Kreacher’s made us a pie for lunch, are you coming?” His eyes glance up at the wall, and his jaw suddenly drops as he, for the first time, notices the new arch. “Merlin,” he exclaims. “It looks incredible. There’s so much light! This is amazing!”

 

“Yes, Potter, that is generally what happens when extra windows are added to a room,” Draco replies sarcastically, glad for the opportunity to steady himself again.

 

Potter turns around and grins at him. “You’re amazing,” he says. “This is incredible.” He steps forward, close to Draco. His voice lowers. And then, “You’re amazing.”

 

“You already said that,” says Draco, his breath going quiet.

 

“Just reiterating.”

 

Okay, so maybe Pansy is definitely right. Because Potter is looking at him with such emotion and interest and at that moment Draco has never seen anything as green and beautiful as Potter’s eyes. Then it hits him, that _‘oh Merlin I’m in love with Harry fucking Potter and there’s the slightest possibility that he’s into me, too’_ moment. It hits him so hard it’s like he’s been knocked off a broom and is plummeting at eye-watering speeds towards the ground and not a soul is in sight to stop him.

 

“Everything about you is amazing.”

 

Potter leans in. And there it is. Draco hits the ground, the air is ripped from his lungs as their lips meet somewhere in between and it’s like every bloody moment up until now hasn’t mattered because Potter is bloody kissing him and _Salazar_ his touch is so bloody soft, Draco could _die._

 

“Fuck, _Potter,”_ Draco whines—he fucking whines—and Potter’s lips travel down and across his jaw and onto his neck where they pause and then, suddenly, they’re sucking with an intensity so mighty that Draco’s knees buckle and he plunges towards the floor.

 

“I’ve got you,” Potter whispers; his voice has gone husky and the words are moist on his skin, their bodies now completely flush against each other. “Gods, you’re so incredible.”

 

“Potter,” Draco moans.

 

They stand locked together for a few long moments, Potter continually pressing soft kisses onto Draco’s neck, his hands travelling slowly down his back to rest just at the top of his bum. Draco is _trembling_ , the scent of Potter’s shampoo and the texture of his unruly hair tickling his nose and making him positively dizzy and overwhelmed with the onslaught of senses, senses of Potter he never thought he’d experience in all his life. The air between them has never been so close, so concentrated; it’s unexplainable. Draco is floating, buoyant, somewhere in the amalgamated space between dreams and reality.

 

And then Potter sucks that spot again and Draco can’t believe this is happening—everything around him is flashing, blinding, _too much_ , but still not enough. It simultaneously needs to end and never stop.

 

“Potter,” he moans again, quieter. His throat has relinquished. The words are forced, scratchy.

 

Potter pulls back and looks at him inquisitively. He is surprisingly put together, though his glasses are crooked and there’s a hint of a flush on his golden skin. He smiles shyly. “I’ve been wanting to do that for so bloody long,” he says softly, letting out a little laugh. He lifts his thumb to brush over Draco’s cheek, the distance between them getting ever so closer as he does so.

 

“Fuck,” Draco says, and then he’s laughing and his head is tipping forward into Potter’s chest and everything feels so damn _right._

 

“I thought I’d mucked it up at the date,” Potter continues. “You seemed so confused about everything and I just kept bloody _talking!_ And not about fun stuff. Why am I like that?”

 

“I thought…” Draco starts, but reticence engulfs him. He puts his chin to his chest and looks at the floor, suddenly wanting to avoid Potter’s gaze.

 

“Hey,” the other man says softly. His hands softly touch Draco’s chin, pushing it upwards. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

 

Blushing, Draco lets out a nervous laugh. “I thought you just wanted a… a scene. I didn’t realise that it was a, erm, a proper date.”

 

Potter’s face goes serious. “Is that what you wanted?” he asks. “A scene?”

 

Draco shakes his head. “I thought I did. I mean… I don’t _not_ want one. But I want more. I want more dates and… and kissing. I like the kissing. A lot. _Salazar,_ what am I even saying? I like you a lot, Potter. I need to—”

 

Potter’s lips cut him off, the words dying in his throat as their mouths move together in a slow, steady rhythm. Draco hasn’t kissed much before—Pansy, once, before they’d both realised they were gay, and then Blaise a few times in Hogwarts, and then a couple of strangers late at night in the toilets of Muggle bars, and only because he’d had too much wine and the Muggles had dark skin, wayward hair, and glasses. None of those kisses with strangers or Blaise or Pansy felt like _this,_ like an entire life’s worth of magic has swooped in and completely _engulfed_ him. None of the partners he shared those kisses with had green eyes that have stared down death himself two times in a row, nor hands that have brought down a mass murderer and saved almost _everyone_. Harry Potter has been Draco’s equal, his antagonist, his enemy, his victim, his desired, his _near-murderer_ , his hero, his employer, his friend, and now… now he’s kissing him. It’s freeing, oddly, to think that all his twenty-four years of absolutely nothing but hurt are being overshadowed by this moment here on a Monday in late October with Harry Potter on the fourth floor of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

 

“As much as I love hearing you babble,” says Potter as their foreheads touch and their breath mingles together, “I love kissing you even more.”

 

“Potter…”

 

“Harry.”

 

Draco gulps. “Harry,” he whispers, “kiss me again. Please.”

 

 _How could this be happening to me?_ Draco asks himself as Harry kisses him fiercely, intimately, like Draco is the actual air he needs to breathe. _I surely don’t deserve this,_ he thinks as Harry attacks that one spot again on his neck, that spot he had found so quickly in the beginning and now seems obsessed with. _I don’t deserve a man like him. I don’t deserve a man like_ him.

 

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry gasps. Draco’s hands are tangled in Harry’s hair—how is it so bloody _soft?_

 

“Harry,” whines Draco.

 

“Gods, love hearing my name from your lips.” Harry’s lips trail back up to Draco’s jaw, where they suck a bruise into the skin. “Wanna hear you scream it, sometime.”

 

“Please,” Draco replies, pleading. He doesn’t even know what he’s pleading for.

 

A sudden roaring erupts from between them, and Harry takes a step back, groaning and putting space between them. “Bloody stomach, m’starving,” he mumbles, lazily scratching at his abdomen.

 

Draco swallows harshly, trying to take his eyes away from the crotch of Harry’s jeans, where he can see an impressive erection tenting the denim. He feels far too hot. “M-maybe we should,” he stutters, “j-join the others for, um, for lunch.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, nodding and smiling. His green eyes flash from behind dark lashes, and he quickly presses another kiss, this one much more chaste, to Draco’s wet, parted lips. “You’ll stay? After work is done for the day?”

 

Draco nods, still in a daze. Harry grins again.

 

“Great. Brilliant.” Without picking up his wand, he flicks his hand to Draco’s neck. Draco feels a wave of magic run over his skin, startling him. Bloody show-off, wordless _and_ wandless magic? “Don’t worry,” says Harry. “I’m just getting rid of the lovebites. As much as I love seeing them, I’m not sure how I feel about your team members knowing. At least so early on. Maybe one day….” Harry’s thought trails off.

 

Draco blushes at the idea of his team members seeing Harry’s marks on his skin. The thought of it makes him feel irrationally wired, hot, _charged._ Part of him, perhaps the rational side, thinks it would be humiliating for those people to know what it is he gets up to in his spare time; but the other part of him, the part controlled by his libido, is ignited by the idea. His cock jumps when he imagines Harry’s bite marks displayed on his neck for all the world to see, for all the world to know just who it is he belongs to.

 

He looks up at Harry, who is smirking. “You’re aroused by the idea,” he says, his voice low. “I can tell by your pupils.”

 

“What?” Draco asks dumbly. “I thought that was a stupid Muggle myth.”

 

Harry throws back his head and lets out a bark of a laugh. “No, it’s a very real thing. A very useful thing, too. I saw it that first day. That’s how I knew.”

 

A shiver runs down Draco’s spine as he remembers that day—was it really only a few short weeks ago? “I’m glad you knew,” says Draco, “because I sure didn’t.”

 

Harry’s eyes are soft when he reaches forward, taking Draco’s left hand in his and tracing the veins at the top of his hand. His shirt has ridden up, revealing just a glimpse of his faded Dark Mark. He feels raw, exposed, _disgraceful,_ and tries to pull away from the contact, but Harry’s grip gently coaxes him back. The mark doesn’t seem to turn him away.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Draco admits on a whisper. “The romance, the sex, none of it.” He lets out a nervous chuckle, then adds, “I only know furniture transfiguration spells.”

 

Harry lets out a small laugh. “I’ll teach you everything,” he says, “everything you need to know. I’ll be there, every step of the way.”

 

“Thank you,” Draco whispers, shutting his eyes for a brief second. They fly open again when his own stomach rumbles, matching the sound of Harry’s just a minute earlier, and they both burst out laughing.

 

“Okay, let’s go join the others for lunch. Snogging and sappiness isn’t going to stop us from going hungry.”

 

He follows Harry down to the kitchen. When they arrive, the mumbling of everyone at the table stops, and they all look up at the newcomers. Goldstein—the damn Ravenclaw, he is—smirks at them, but the others don’t seem to notice how close Harry and Draco sit, or the fact that Harry serves Draco his pie with an expression so heated it could burn the entire bloody house down. And they especially don’t notice the way Harry’s hand slowly creeps up Draco’s thigh as the meal carries on. And they certainly don’t see the way Harry immediately pins Draco to the wall the second the last person has left the house after another long afternoon of hard work.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco arrives home at half past nine that evening after a couple hours of takeaway, a lot of snogging on Harry’s sofa, and _very_ little talking. His stomach is full and his limbs are tingling with glee as he unlocks his front door and steps inside. He throws his cloak and satchel into a slump in the corner, for once not caring about any untidiness. He’s positively dying for a cup of tea and an early evening curled up in bed with just the memories of the day that’s transpired to keep him company.

 

He startles when a light switches on in the reception room.

 

“You’re back late.”

 

“Oh for _fuck’s sake,_ Pansy,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes at his friend and walking towards her. She’s sat in the corner, her fishnet clad leg draped dramatically over the leg of the sofa whilst she takes a drag of her lit black cigarette. “I told you to stop breaking in!”

 

“It’s not called breaking in when your mother and I are the only two your wards let in.”

 

“And I _also_ told you not to smoke in my house unless you’re in the conservatory and have a window open!”

 

Pansy rolls her eyes and stands up with a little skip, her silk dress strap slipping off her shoulder; it’s practically lingerie. She takes another drag of her cigarette, blowing out the smoke so that it forms a heart in the air. Draco rolls his eyes in annoyance, brandishes his wand, and quickly spells away the smoke and the lit cigarette dangling between Pansy’s fingertips. The girl just grins, twists her hand, and another one comes flying from the clutch sitting on the sofa, as well as a Muggle lighter. She lights up and inhales slowly, the smoke curling delicately off the end of the cigarette.

 

“Absolutely disgraceful,” he mumbles to himself. “What are you doing here, Pansy?”

 

“Oh, you know,” she says, her eyes twinkling, “was just wondering how your day was. Or should I say evening?”

 

She winks, and Draco frowns. “How in the buggering hell could you—”

 

“You know I have my sources, darling.”

 

Draco just stares, unconvinced.

 

“Okay, fine. Potter owled me last night. Said he was finally going to get a bloody move-on with you. And by the way you look like you’ve just caught the Snitch at the Quidditch World Cup, I’d say he got his bloody move-on.”

 

“Wait, you _owl_ Harry?”

 

“Oh, so he’s _Harry_ now?” Pansy asks with a wicked grin.

 

Draco sighs, not even bothered by the fact he must look like a bloody _fool_ with the outrageous smile that erupts onto his face as he realises he’s let Harry’s name—his _actual_ name—slip. He doesn’t care; he’s probably the happiest he’s ever been. “He got his bloody move-on,” he finally says.

 

“About time.”

 

“Pansy,” he whines, falling roughly onto the sofa and curling up, “I _snogged_ Harry Potter.”

 

“And for quite a long time, going by how late you are,” Pansy replies. “What else did you, ahem, _engage_ in?”

 

Quicker than he thought his magic was able to, Draco spells a pillow to fly up and smack Pansy in the face, all the while he’s shrieking and Pansy is cackling. “We just snogged.”

 

“Sure,” Pansy says, drawing the word out longer than necessary.

 

“I’m serious. Just snogged and ate and snogged some more.”

 

Pansy pouts, vanishing the stub of her cigarette. “Boring.”

 

“Safe,” Draco adds quickly, then immediately frowns, wondering if _safe_ is really want he wants. “I mean… I don’t want to rush, and I don’t think Harry does either.”

 

“Okay but _Harry_ has the highest libido of any man I’ve ever met, and—”

 

“How do you know what Harry’s bloody libido is like?” Draco asks, shocked and maybe even just a little bit jealous.

 

The laugh that courses out of Pansy is loud and sharp. “Oh Merlin, Draco! You’re _so_ far gone for him.” She purses her lips and gives him a sympathetic smile. “Remember Wayne Hopkins?”

 

Draco frowns, trying to recall why that name is so familiar. “Hufflepuff, right? In our year?”

 

“Yeah. Well, anyway, he’s best friends with Annabel, the girl I had over the other night when you so _rudely_ interrupted us.”

 

Draco blushes sheepishly. “Sorry.”

 

“Never mind that,” Pansy says with a wave of her hand, “she came back later and we had some fun. But anyway, since I’ve been seeing Annabel, Wayne also has been around a bit.”

 

“Thought you didn’t like men.”

 

“Not like _that_ , I mean, for nights out and stuff. He’s been pretty weepy since he and Potter broke it off a couple of weeks ago.”

 

“Wait,” says Draco, trying to get all the facts straight in his mind, “Potter was with Hopkins? Recently?”

 

Pansy nods. “Yeah, they were together for a few nights I think, then Potter ended it. I know I’ve told you about that already, I mean, it’s not unusual for him to make it so short, but Wayne seems to think it was personal. Conveniently, Potter ended it right around the time _you_ came into the picture, darling.”

 

And then she winks and Draco feels like he’s burning up.

 

“But _anyway_ that’s not important. What _is_ important is that Wayne is very shameless when it comes to talking about sex, which I’m fine with. I don’t think Annabel likes it, though. But according to Wayne, Potter just goes… and goes… and _goes_. It’s constant; the man must have the stamina of a dragon.”

 

Draco’s stomach twists pleasantly at the thought.

 

“Might be time to pick up some Quidditch again, darling,” Pansy teases, “and get back into shape.”

 

“Are you calling me fat?” Draco asks, finally relaxed again now that he understands what Pansy meant when she talked about Harry’s libido.

 

Her lips forming a fake-shocked expression, Pansy gasps dramatically. “I would _never!”_ She smiles at him then pulls him in for a tight hug. She smells of perfume and cigarettes and it’s grounding—Draco has always liked the way Pansy smells, like security, love, companionship. It really is a shame they could never be a couple.

 

“Thank you for calming me down,” says Draco, grateful for his best friend and how often she’s been there for his minor freak-outs the past few weeks. “...again,” he decides to add at the last minute.

 

“I love you. Make sure you keep me updated on everything with Potter, okay? I want to make sure he’s treating you right. I’ll hex his balls off if he does _anything_ to hurt you.”

 

Draco smiles mischievously. “But what if I _want_ him to hurt me?” he says cheekily.

 

“Oh, Salazar,” Pansy says, fake fanning a tear down her cheek, “you’ve learnt so much, I’m so proud of you.” She picks up her clutch and fishes out another cigarette before walking to the Floo. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

 

“Bye, Pansy,” Draco says, smiling happily as his best friend steps into the Floo and swirls away. He switches off the lights in the flat and heads towards his bedroom, casting a fire in the hearth and grabbing his new favourite lube from the drawer before settling into bed and imagining it’s Harry’s body warmth that casts a glow on the room rather than the fire.


	9. Chapter 9

“Hi,” Harry says shyly the next Monday when Draco knocks on the door in the early morning. The other man’s hair is more disheveled than usual and he’s not wearing a shirt—just those damned joggers from the first day. Draco doesn’t care; he immediately jumps forward and latches his lips onto Harry’s, threading his fingers through the messy locks at the back of his head. “Mmm,” Harry hums, “good morning to you, too.” He steps back, letting their hands tangle in front of them as his green eyes dart down to the bulge in Draco’s trousers.

 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all weekend,” Draco blurts out.

 

Harry grins, his cheeks glowing and teeth all on display. “God, that’s fucking hot,” he says, stepping forward and stealing another kiss. “How long until everyone else gets here?”

 

Casting _Tempus,_ Draco shrugs. “An hour or so? I told them we were going over management stuff.”

 

“Management stuff,” Harry chuckles. “That’s good, I’ll have to remember that one.” He sucks at Draco’s neck for a few long seconds then pops off with a hum. “So we have time to, erm, _manage_ how fucking turned on by you I am?”

 

“Yes,” Draco chokes as Harry presses a thigh between Draco’s leg. “Fuck yes.”

 

When they get to Harry’s room, the morning light is streaming in through the newly constructed arch, illuminating the mahogany bed and its messy, stained sheets and pillows. As a teenager, Draco had always imagined losing his virginity on a spring day in a chateau in France, on silk sheets, with classical music playing quietly on the wireless. Instead, it looks like it’s going to happen on a gloomy winter day in a rotting terraced house in London, on stained cotton sheets that look like they’re from the bottom shelf at M&S, and with the distant hum of Kreacher’s weird Swedish Muggle pop songs blasting from the kitchen a few floors below them—sound really _does_ travel well in these old houses.

 

 

 

“Kreacher,” Draco mumbles as he is pushed onto the bed. The frame slams into the wall, reverberating loudly.

 

“Please don’t mention my decrepit, wrinkly old house-elf when I’m about to get you off,” Harry mumbles, his hands flying to the buttons on Draco’s shirt.

 

“I mean—oh _fuck_ , Harry. I mean he might _hear_ us.”

 

Harry doesn’t seem to care, because he throws himself on top of Draco, grinding their clothed cocks together, making the bed frame bash against the wall again. “He’s listening to ABBA and frying eggs—he won’t mind. Besides”—he thrusts his hips down slowly, eliciting a sharp mewl from Draco—“he’s heard worse.”

 

Still a bit flustered at the thought of the elf hearing them, Draco fumbles for his wand and casts a quick silencing spell. It’s hard with Harry covering almost every bit of him with the hot, hardness of his body, but he finally manages and turns back to the… _task_ at hand. “Can’t believe I’m about to lose my virginity on this pathetic excuse for a bed,” he quips as a bed spring pokes into his back.

 

“You’re all bark but no bite, Malfoy,” Harry replies, pulling at Draco’s shirt until it finally comes free and slips off. “I want to—oh.” He stops, his face sobering and breath shortening as his eyes land on Draco’s bare chest.

 

“Harry,” Draco says quickly, sitting up with his back against the headboard. Harry has sat back onto his haunches and is staring blankly at the long white scars that cross Draco’s pectorals and travel down to his abdomen, slipping around the back of his ribs. “Harry, it’s okay.”

 

Still, Harry doesn’t move. He just… stares, dissociative.

 

“Harry,” Draco says again. He’s beginning to worry. Surely Harry knows that Draco has long forgiven him? Long before this _thing_ of theirs started, even if Draco hadn’t realised until recently. “Harry, please say something, you’re beginning to worry me.”

 

Harry swallows and shakes his head, his eyes re-focusing on Draco’s face. Draco isn’t sure he’s ever seen such remorse. “I… I can’t believe how stupid I was.”

 

“No,” Draco replies, shaking his head, “we are _not_ turning this into a pity party, okay? You were a child, we both were. It happened, it’s over, now would you _please_ fuck me?”

 

Still frowning a bit, Harry re-positions himself over Draco, deliberately avoiding looking at his chest. “If something happens that you don’t like, tell me to stop, and I will stop.”

 

Draco can tell the other man has lost the mood; he no longer feels the press of Harry’s erection at the front of his joggers, so he nods to show Harry he understands, and decides to do something about that softening cock, to take his mind off the scars marking his skin. They have plenty time to discuss it in the future, but right now, Draco wants sex. “I will, Harry,” he says. “I promise.”

 

His hands roam over Harry’s arms, marvelling at the flutter of muscle beneath taut skin as Harry seems to decide Draco is right and begins rocking his hips again. Draco’s always thought Harry to be fit, even when the other wizard was scrawny and obviously underfed. But now, after years of being an Auror and taking down dark wizards and witches, the man has the body of someone who’s never ate a pudding in his life (which Draco knows to not be true). As he feels the length of Harry’s dick begin to harden again through those flimsy joggers, he sends a silent ‘ _thank you’_ to the wizards up in the sky looking out for Draco’s sex life.

 

Harry attacks Draco’s neck, sucking deep bruises into the skin as his hands travel down his hips and to the front of Draco’s trousers. Draco hisses as the other man’s hands brush his erection. Just the slightest touch feels so _good_ and he needs _more._ This is already so much better than his nearly constant wanks over the past month, and Harry isn’t even properly touching him yet. He pushes his hips up, seeking more contact, and as Harry’s palm flattens against his crotch, Draco unintentionally cries out and bursts into a sudden and unexpected orgasm, a wave of indescribable heat crashing over him and leaving his limbs twitching erratically as a dark spot emerges at the front of his grey trousers.

 

Harry shudders, his breathing picking up, and he whispers into Draco’s skin, “Merlin, that’s fucking hot.”

 

Draco can’t respond; he’s too shocked by the fact that he just came in his trousers like a fucking fifteen-year-old. He didn’t even get the bloody things _unzipped,_ and he immediately turns a bright red as he realises what he’s done, even though it has seemed to push Harry immediately into fuck mode. Harry’s hips are driving down fiercely now, the bed frame continuously slamming into the wall with each of Harry’s harsh thrusts. It takes a minute or so, in which Draco stares in amazement at the man on top of him as he grunts and rocks into the mess Draco has already made. Then, Harry is shuddering, his green eyes rolling up to the top of his head and his chest heaving as an equal dark spot to Draco appears at the front of Harry’s joggers.

 

Harry collapses on top of Draco, his shoulders rising and falling with great big motions. Despite the chill of the weather outside, the space between their bodies reaches temperatures that far surpass that which is normal. Draco can feel sweat drying in places he’s not used to sweat being—behind his knees, between his toes, below his jaw. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his heartbeat thumping loudly in his fuzzy ears.

 

When Harry finally falls to the other side of the bed, he throws out an arm and tugs Draco down into the messy sheets. “Sleep,” he mumbles, the pillow muffling his voice.

 

Draco laughs, but knows he can’t get too comfortable. They have a half hour at most before Goldstein, Pucey, and the Foster twins will be arriving. “We should shower,” he says to Harry, eyes fixed on the ceiling above the four-poster bed. There are a few cracks he hadn’t noticed before.

 

“Don’t wanna,” Harry replies, turning to gaze at Draco. His eyes are droopy and there’s a lazy smile fixed onto his face. “Let’s just stay in bed all day.”

 

_“You_ can stay in bed,” says Draco, poking Harry’s chest with a little chuckle, “but _some_ of us are contracted to work today. Maybe you don’t remember signing the parchment.”

 

“No, I was distracted by a hot blond.”

 

Draco’s heart catches as he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He looks at Harry, all snuggled into the sheets and duvet with a birds nest of wild hair sticking up and one dark nipple peeking out from between his arm and the sheet. He can’t believe the amount of sentiment he feels for this man, this brave, handsome, _impossible_ man. There are so many things he wants to say in this exact moment, a million possibilities of words stringed together to form a million sentences. Instead, he says, “I’m going to shower.”

 

A weak protest comes from the bed as Draco walks towards the door. “Just use a cleaning charm.”

 

“Is that what you usually do?” he asks in shock, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Harry’s head peeks out from the nest of sheets and pillows, sheepish grin adorned. Draco scoffs in disgust and rolls his eyes. “Disgusting, Potter.”

 

“Oh, I’ll show you disgusting, Malfoy,” says Harry with a wicked grin, grunting as he pushes the covers aside and stands up and steps close to Draco. “Ever had a tongue up your arse?”

 

Draco gulps, his eyes going wide and his sticky cock twitching in his trousers. “That’s…”

 

“Dirty. Obscene. _Exquisite.”_ Harry’s voice has gone husky, his hungry green eyes trailing up and down Draco’s flushed body.

 

“We don’t have time.” The words come out choked.

 

“We can make time.”

 

“I have to do my _job_ , Harry.”

 

“Fuck your job, fuck bureaucracy.” Harry reaches out and cups his hand around the bottom of Draco’s left arsecheek. Draco takes a sharp breath. “Fuck it _all.”_ His fingers play with the button on the blond’s trousers as his eyes dart down mischievously, and Draco _wishes_ the Ministry hadn’t banned timeturners.

 

Already, he can see the length of Harry’s cock begin to harden again through his joggers. Harry lifts an eyebrow as he bumps their hips together, Draco’s eyes instinctively rolling to the back of his head as a jolt of pleasure shoots up his spine. He lets out a soft moan as Harry’s hands begin to gently knead at his arse.

 

“It’s okay, Draco. Be as loud as you like. Only I can hear you.”

 

Draco whines at all the points of contact—Harry’s hands on his arse, Harry’s hips thrusting into his leg, Harry’s teeth grazing his jaw. “Clothes,” he manages to squeak. “Clothes. Off.”

 

Harry inhales sharply. “Yeah?”

 

Draco nods, swallowing nervously when Harry’s hands move to the front of his trousers again, playing with the button and zip. _Gods,_ he’s been dreaming about this for weeks, months, maybe even years. Harry knows exactly what he’s doing, where to touch Draco and what to say to him. Draco doesn’t know what to do back, where to touch Harry and what to say to him. So he stares, mouth opened just slightly and chest beginning its rise and fall much more rapidly.

 

Slowly, _so_ slowly, Harry pulls the zip on Draco’s trousers down. His erection strains towards Harry’s hands, and the wizard grins wickedly. Impatient, Draco stumbles as he pulls the trousers down his legs and bum and steps out, letting them lay haphazardly in a pile on the floor. His eyes linger on Harry as the other wizard licks his lips hungrily, green eyes staring at milky white thighs clad only in tight black briefs. “You’re exquisite,” he says, fingers playing with the material. “Come back to bed with me, Draco.”

 

He should say no. He _has_ to say no. Someone could walk in on them at any moment. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets Harry pull him back onto the messy bed, delicately, like Draco may break at any moment. His body falls, the sheets pooling around him as Harry slowly crawls on top.

 

“You don’t have to be so soft, Potter,” Draco murmurs as Harry’s hands gently trace the outline of Draco’s cock through his briefs. The other man freezes, his breath going nearly silent as he haltingly raises his eyes to bore into Draco’s. The blond inhales sharply.

 

“Draco…” Harry warns.

 

Draco settles his gaze on Harry’s green eyes and blinks once, telling him _yes_. He wants this so bad, wants to listen to Harry, to say _fuck_ his job, _fuck_ bureaucracy, fuck _him._

 

Harry is back on him in a flash, his teeth clashing with Draco’s in a hard collision. When his hand reaches up and fists itself into Draco’s hair, yanking it roughly upwards, Draco can’t help but wail, a sharp trail of pleasure crashing through his veins in sudden waves. They’ve barely begun again, but already the shrill bliss is almost overwhelming. He doesn’t want to come in seconds like before, but _Circe,_ with the way Harry is grabbing him, bruising his skin, piercing his lips with his teeth, his orgasm could come coursing through him at any second.

 

When Harry’s hips begin a gentle grind, Draco shouts his name with a gasp. The other wizard sits up in a hover over him, their clothed erections just nearly touching. With each heaving breath, it feels like the air in the room gets warmer and warmer, like the greenhouses back at Hogwarts. Fluxweed is the _last_ thing he wants to be thinking about as Harry’s hand wraps tightly around his wrist, and pull it strongly above his head, his fingers gentle but firm.

 

Draco gives a tentative, curious struggle, and Harry growls deep and low, the vibrations descending down his body. _Oh_. His hips start up again, quickly, ruthless, and Draco’s orgasm is impending. The waves of pleasure have just begun to ripple through him when Harry pulls off. The sudden loss of the heat and stimulation of Harry’s cock sends Draco whining, and he thrashes beneath the other man, his hips bucking up in search of touch. His eyes are clenched shut, as they always do right before he comes, and when he blinks them open, he’s surprised to find them slightly wet.

 

“Harry,” he whimpers pathetically, gaping up at him. Harry’s eyes are nearly black and there’s a bead of sweat running down his forehead and over the dips of his scar as he unnervingly bores into Draco’s eyes.

 

“You’ll come when I tell you you can come.”

 

That right there almost sends Draco coming.

 

He can’t help himself, he’s _so_ hard, _needs_ relief, and so he tries to move one hand down. Harry is quick though, his Auror reflexes snatching his wrist and pinning it with his other above his head. Sitting there, stretched out on the bed with his hands above him, revealed, _vulnerable,_ Draco knows the second his cock gets touched again, he’ll be coming.

 

“That’s my boy,” Harry says beneath his breath as Draco stills. “If you behave, I’ll let you come before the others get here. Which should be”—he wordlessly and wandlessly casts _Tempus—_ “in about two hours.”

 

“Two hours?” Draco chokes out, eyes going wide. They should have no more than five minutes; he’d told everyone to arrive by eight.

 

Harry gives him a wicked grin, and lets one of his fingers trail over Draco’s top lip while his other hand keeps a firm grip on his wrists. “I _may_ have owled everyone late last night telling them to come at ten. Meant I could have three hours to have my wicked way with you.” He punctuates the sentence by slipping the finger through Draco’s compliant, parted lips. “What do you say?”

 

Draco shudders, just barely managing to squeak out a ‘yes’ before Harry is slipping his finger away and crashing their mouths together again. Draco continues to arch upwards, seeking contact, but Harry always manages to stay just above him, teasing him with mere millimetres of space.

 

“Harry, please,” Draco pleads. “Please.”

 

“Please what?”

 

“Touch me! Please, touch me.”

 

He surges up the bed when, with a quick pull, Harry removes Draco’s briefs. The blond shouts as his straining cock hits the stark air of the room and Harry stares down at him, licking his lips hungrily. “Thank Merlin I finally get to see this,” he hums, his hand going to rest just at the top of Draco’s thigh, so close to where he wants it to be. If only Harry would just press upwards that tiny distance…. “Where do you want to be touched, Draco?”

 

“My cock,” Draco gasps, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks. “I’m so close, Harry.”

 

Harry hums, his thumb rubbing _frustratingly_ slow circles into Draco’s hips. His legs are shaking with exertion, and he’s never felt like this before, so close to orgasm yet denied that privilege. When he wanks, he doesn’t tease himself, just gets the job done and continues on with his day. But _Harry;_ he just keeps teasing him, leaning down and pressing chaste kisses to his neck and collarbones, keeping a steady grip on his wrists, avoiding Draco’s cock with every shift of their bodies. Draco feels helpless, wrecked, exhausted, and _so_ aroused.

 

“You’re doing so well,” Harry praises, the circling of his thumb beginning to slowly move closer towards Draco’s aching cock.

 

Draco shouts impatiently when Harry completely pulls away save for the hand on his wrist, tugging at his joggers clumsily and throwing them aside without a care. Harry’s erection is prominent, the ratty red boxers he’s wearing doing little to hide the impressive length of it. Draco wants it everywhere, in his mouth, over his stomach, beneath his hand, in his arse, _everywhere._ “Please, can I see you?” he asks, the words coming out in a rush as his chest heaves with the exertion of being so close to orgasm.

 

Harry’s hand teasingly palms at his cock through his boxers, stroking the length with long pulls and a deep grunt. Draco’s own cock is throbbing, each pulse of arousal putting him in a spot of desperation. Without warning, Harry thrusts forward, their cocks meeting again with only the fabric of the boxers between their flesh. Draco cries out, his hips jerking upwards in a fit of intensity. Then, Harry bites at his neck and whispers against his skin, “hold on for me, baby.”

 

With a gasp of frustration, Draco squeezes his eyes shut hard as he attempts to withhold his orgasm. His thighs shake tremendously as Harry draws back again and looks at him through hooded, dark eyes. “Harry,” he whines, “I don’t think I can.”

 

“Yes, you can, Draco. I know you can.”

 

Draco’s hips thrust up pitifully. “Please.”

 

Harry looks at him sternly. “I’m going to let go of your wrists now, Draco. You are not to touch your cock, do you understand?”

 

Draco doesn’t answer, his eyes pinching tightly shut again and a sharp sob escaping his throat.

 

“I need an answer, Draco.”

 

He manages to nod and stutter out an “okay”, unsure if he’ll actually manage to withhold from touching himself; this sort of arousal is different than anything he’s ever experienced before—it borders on painful, burning in sparks along his entire body and centred at the point where his legs meet and his cock juts out. He so badly wants to obey, wants to be good for Harry. He has to be the best he can so that Harry understands how _much_ he wants this. He breathes in sharply, trying to focus all his energy into remaining still, for Harry.

 

The pressure on his wrists releases, and the urge to touch is agonising. But, Harry looks at him sternly, so he concentrates all his capacity in keeping his hands away, instead choosing to grip at the bed sheets again. The low-grade cotton scratches at his skin, hurts his nails, but Harry is giving him a tiny smile and he knows he’s done well. The other man sits back on his haunches, hovering just above Draco’s shins, and begins to toy with the waistband of his boxers.

 

Draco watches with eagerness as Harry slowly pulls down his own boxers, the black hair on his stomach becoming thicker and darker as each new bit of his body is revealed. With a quick tug, the red fabric is stretched down and the tip of Harry Potter’s cock is there—flushed red, straining upwards, and with a bead of precome gathered—just breaths away from Draco’s keen eyes. The longing to touch is immense, especially as Harry tugs at his pants again and they fall down his thighs, exposing the rest of his cock.

 

He lets himself stare at it for a few long seconds, avoiding his compulsion to touch his own weeping cock. It’s considerably long and dark yet bright in colour, with a couple of prominent veins traveling the length of it. It juts into the air towards Draco’s face, almost like it _knows_ where it belongs. He wants it all over him, touching everywhere from his face cheeks down to his arse cheeks, but he’s not sure how to express that to Harry.

 

Harry’s hand reaches up, the back of his fingers reaching out to touch Draco’s cheekbone. Draco’s eyes flutter shut as he lets the contact of the fingers ground him back in reality. He focuses on that small expanse that their skin meets, centring everything on that place, and only moaning slightly when Harry leans down again and lets their cocks touch. It’s difficult, staying still; he wants nothing more than to thrust up into the contact, to allow himself the orgasm he knows has been building this whole time. His arms shake as he sits up a bit, watching with tension as the hardness of their dicks meet again when Harry presses down a bit more vigorously.

 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Harry mumbles into his jaw, and that sets off something in Draco again. He needs his release.

 

“Harry, please, please let me come now.”

 

At this, Harry grunts and snaps his hips forward, throwing his hand into Draco’s hair and pulling _hard_ at the strands. “You’ve been so good for me, baby,” he whispers huskily. “You may come now.”

 

With this, the burning waves of Draco’s orgasm grow and grow, radiating from his cock and down to his legs, and it takes just a few more hard snaps of Harry’s hips until Draco is coming harshly, his throat going raw as he shouts out a series of incomprehensible swears, Harry’s name repeated a number of times in varying volumes. It’s the longest orgasm he’s ever had, coming in sharp bursts that drive him forward at a pace he can hardly control. When the waves finally begin to cease, his head slams back onto the headboard with a loud bang, his spent cock still twitching erratically.

 

His legs are trembling in abundance as Harry continues to rut against him, chasing his own orgasm. Draco whines, driven incoherent by the wet slide of Harry’s cock against his, painfully oversensitive but exquisite. As release crashes over the other wizard, Draco watches through fuzzy eyes as Harry’s cock spurts three long ropes of come over Draco’s stomach and chest, one strip landing perfectly over one of the long scars that criss cross him.

 

Everything around him goes out of focus after that as he collapses to the side, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. He hears rather than sees Harry’s breaths beginning to slow, the other wizard fumbling with something on the bedside table. Draco lets his heavy eyes fall closed and his body melt into the sheets. Something nearby is buzzing, and the sheets really are not very soft, but Draco is so faint; everything around is muffled and he is ready to succumb to sleep. Harry mumbles something into his ear, then gets up. The bed goes cold for a few long seconds and then dips and warms again. There’s something soft and damp being run over his stomach, gently, like a butterfly’s kiss.

 

“You did so well, my beautiful,” Harry whispers into his ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

 

Draco is barely sentient, but the words send a small shiver running down his spine, and he gives one last quiet whine before slipping into unconsciousness.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

When Draco comes to, there’s something very warm pressed up against him from behind and trailing over his ribs. He blinks away the sleep in his eyes, confusion falling over him as he tries to remember where he is. He registers the scratchy sheets, the gentle hum of breathing from behind, the weightless feeling of having just experienced a bone melting orgasm…. His mind catches up, and he’s quick to melt back into the bed as his confusion dissipates. All the slots click into place, with Harry holding them all together.

 

Letting out a soft murmur, Draco scoots his bum back against Harry’s front. A deep chuckle emerges, and Draco knows the other man is awake. He burrows further up against him, craving intimacy like never before. For the next while, he drifts in and out of sleep, his body flexing into the grooves of the bed each time Harry shifts and the mattress dips. At one point, there are fingers running through his hair, twisting some strands together and separating others so that they slip over his forehead and tickle his eyes.

 

A sudden buzz from the bedside table jolts him from his slumber, and his body immediately leaps in alarm. Hands softly touch his waist as the vibrations halt. “Was just my wand alarm,” Harry says softly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s half-nine, we’ve got thirty minutes until everyone gets here.”

 

Draco lets out a soft moan as he turns on his side to look at Harry. His arms and legs ache like something else. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

 

Harry presses a kiss to his forehead. “S’okay. It was your first time doing anything like that. You did so well, I’m so proud of you.”

 

Draco preens and flushes at the approval. He wants to do anything that will make Harry proud of him. “I don’t know if my body can carry me to the shower,” he admits shyly. Harry just laughs in response.

 

A few minutes pass by—Draco has just begun to slip back into sleep, when suddenly, strong arms fit under him and lift him from the bed. He lets out a little yelp, quickly wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck as the other wizard laughs and moves them through from the bedroom into the bathroom. They’re both still naked, and Harry deposits Draco onto the closed, cracked toilet seat then turns to the shower. Draco watches with lazy eyes as Harry starts the water, the nozzle sputtering for a few seconds, his back flexing as he turns to change the temperature.

 

He’s still in a bit of a daze, Draco is. Something about what they did earlier has turned his mind and body into jelly. He feels like he should worry that Harry will think he’s lazy—after all, he _did_ get a full night of sleep last night, but still has managed to sleep another few hours—but the other wizard doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. He’s humming to himself as he grabs a couple potion bottles from a shelf and sets them aside, occasionally turning and giving Draco a large grin. “You ready?” he asks when the temperature seems to satisfy him.

 

Draco nods then stands on wobbly feet to enter the shower. Harry is right behind him, and the second he steps into the steamy cubicle he nearly melts to the floor. The shower smells _heavenly,_ and it takes everything not to want to go crawling back to bed again. He lets Harry guide him under the spray, his dark hands immediately going to Draco’s hair. Draco’s head droops sideways as Harry’s fingers rub his scalp, down his neck, and to his shoulders. He lets out a soft moan as Harry’s fingers reach a sore spot on his shoulder, quickly doing away with the knot as the hot water and potions wash their naked bodies.

 

“As much as I want to spend all day taking care of you,” Harry mumbles, “we haven’t got much time left.”

 

Draco nods, and with shaky legs, moves back under the water to fully wet his hair. He smiles gratefully as Harry hands him a bottle of shampoo, then frowns as he reads the label: _Sainsbury’s Basics Shampoo_. “Really, Potter, you wash your hair with _this?”_ He attempts to scoff, but it comes out much less harsh than he’s intended. Whatever Harry did to him earlier, it’s taken away all his bite, because Harry just laughs from under the spray and shrugs. With a grimace, Draco squirts a glop of the shampoo onto his hand and lathers it up. It leaves his usually silky smooth hair feeling rough and tangled; no wonder Harry’s always looks like _that._ He takes a few minutes with the equally shite conditioner, then washes his body with the slightly better soap, being careful with his cock which has been more than overworked today.

 

By the time they both step out of the shower, Draco is feeling slightly more like himself, but he still lets Harry wrap him up into a fluffy towel and kiss his forehead. A blush forms on his cheeks as he pushes past Harry back into the bedroom where his pants, trousers, shirt, socks, and jumper are folded neatly atop the dresser.

 

“Kreacher must’ve done some washing whilst we were asleep,” Harry says. He opens the top drawer and pulls out a pair of pants, dropping his towel and unashamedly stepping into the green boxers. Draco can’t help but blush and realise how bloody _good_ Harry looks in Slytherin green.

 

“Mmm,” he hums in reply, pulling on his own pants. He knows he hasn’t spoken more than about five words since waking up, but for the time being, he’s content to stay in this moment of sleepy bliss.

 

Harry walks up to him, having thrown on a shirt, and puts his hand on Draco’s hip. “You feeling okay?” he asks, his eyes soft and tender.

 

“Yeah,” Draco responds with a little laugh. “Just… weird. Tired, strangely clingy, kind of wobbly.”

 

Harry’s eyebrows wiggle goofily. “Like you’ve had the fuck of your life?”

 

Draco laughs again, then nods shyly, hoping his happiness is resonating well on his face.

 

It must, because Harry steps closer and raises his lips to Draco’s ear. “That’s good, because there’s plenty more where that’s come from, darling,” he whispers, before pressing the chastest of kisses to his cheek and walking away to continue getting dressed.

 

Draco stands struck in fondness for a few long seconds before shaking his head and pulling on the rest of his clothes. Work now, moments of weakness for the wonder that is Harry Potter later.


	11. Chapter 11

Despite the delayed start, the day drags on endlessly. With all the hard spellwork done—culminating in the arch last week—it’s mostly Muggle-style carpentry and plumbing left before the cosmetic part of the design. Re-integrating the Muggle and wizarding elements of the house is boring, dry, lengthy, and most of all, brings up a lot of dust.

 

By the time evening rolls around, Draco is tired, hungry, and a bit irked. He’s just fixed the pipes of his third toilet of the day, which isn’t exactly the most glamorous job. As much as he loves his work, it is quite laborious, and each time a project starts to stride closer to its finish, his overworked shoulders begin to cry in relief. It will only be a couple weeks at most before the next undertaking comes in, but those weeks are always precious to Draco.

 

He’s thinking about the wonderful lie-ins he’s going to have as he is ascending the stairs when Harry catches him from one of the rooms. They haven’t spoken since the morning; they’ve been far too busy with stubborn pipes and beams.

 

“Come see me in the kitchen before you leave?”

 

“Of course,” Draco says. “I’m just checking on Perrie’s work with the window in the loft, then I’ll be down.”

 

“Great,” says Harry with a grin. He presses a quick kiss to Draco’s temple, and Draco’s heart soars as the other man turns and jogs down the stairs.

 

Up in the loft, Perrie is having difficulty with one of the charms on the new windows. The witch is exhausted, her usually straight black hair in frizzles around her manic face. Draco sends her down, then throws a stasis charm over the stubborn window. They’ll tackle it first thing tomorrow, but for now, everyone is too exhausted to continue.

 

He sees everyone out with promises that tomorrow will be better—it probably won’t be—then descends the stairs down to the kitchen. Harry is sat on a stool, talking amicably with Kreacher who is stirring something on the cast iron cooktop. He looks relaxed and happy, his messy hair stuck up in the front. Draco smiles as he watches, his heart warming at the scene. Although it was probably inevitable—Harry being his childhood _obsession_ and all—he can’t believe how quickly he’s fallen for the idiot. He’s flat out, head over heels for him.

 

He makes his presence known, and Harry turns around with a bright smile as he sees Draco approaching. Kreacher turns back to whatever he’s cooking as Harry stands and walks over.

 

“Hello,” he mumbles when he reaches Draco, his hand coming up to cup the blond’s jaw. “You look lovely.”

 

“I’m sweaty and exhausted,” Draco complains. “I’m going to need another shower. The _third_ one of the day, no thanks to you,” he says pointedly. Harry just laughs wickedly.

 

“Stay for dinner? Kreacher’s made a cassoulet.”

 

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” Draco says hesitantly.

 

“Kreacher has learnt the recipe from only the best house-elves in Southern France!” the house-elf pipes in, turning from the cooktop to look at Draco. “He is wanting young Master Malfoy to eats it!”

 

Draco looks at Harry, who gives him a shrug and a wink. “You can’t argue with that.”

 

Laughing, Draco agrees, and sits down at the table with Harry. The kitchen looks a mess; only half the cupboards have been reinstalled, some of the Muggle wiring for Harry’s electronics lay stuck out of the walls under stasis charms, and the heavy weight of dust in the air just won’t seem to clear no matter how many charms they cast. Imagining his bright, clean kitchen back home in Blackheath with its modern design and minimalist decor, Draco finds it quite interesting that sitting here in a dark, half-finished basement kitchen with Harry Potter and an ancient house-elf cooking up a peasant farmers’ dish, that there’s no other place he would rather be.

 

He and Harry make easy side-talk, and it’s absolutely ridiculous how effortless it is considering everything they have gone through together. One doesn’t tease and bully someone for six years, nearly kill him, fall in love with him, save his life, fight him in a battle, disappear from his life, work for him, fall back in love with him again, then let him pull his bloody hair and fuck him senseless in broad fucking daylight—this is not supposed to be _easy,_ this kind of thing. They’re supposed to despise each other, not exchange good-humoured quips and lingering glances with delicious bowls of stew and fresh crusty bread between them. It’s all so easy, maybe too easy….

 

Harry drops the bomb when he returns from stashing their bowls into the sink for later washing. He comes back and casually lays a roll of parchment between them on the table. Harry swallows before sitting down and looking at Draco earnestly. “I’ve been a bit irresponsible; we were supposed to do this before this morning.”

 

Draco looks at him questioningly, setting down into his seat with the cup of tea Kreacher has just brewed for him. Harry nods at the parchment, so Draco leans forward to unroll the top of it. His breath catches as he reads the first line.

 

“It will be a bit different since you are—in all aspects—a virgin,” Harry begins. “A lot of what we will be doing will be teaching, negotiating, figuring out together what you do and do not like. I propose we return to this frequently; the parchment is charmed to clear when you want to make amendments.”

 

His finger tracing the words **‘** BDSM contract between Draco Lucius Malfoy and Harry James Potter’ _,_ Draco wonders how he’s going to get through this in one piece. Negotiations and contracts are things he’s grown up around, from a little boy watching his father manage the estate from his opulent study to his own managing of probably too many parchments for any sane wizard. It should comfort him, make him realise—in clear words—how this thing is going to play out. However, now that it’s clear that this is more than just a one-off, the confrontation with it is daunting, and it feels to him more like a list of things he _really_ should have experienced by now. Words like ‘anal’ and ‘oral’ flash up at him, and a flush of embarrassment burns up his neck as it hits him how inexperienced he is compared to Harry. “Do we really need to do all this?” he asks, unrolling the parchment further and gasping as he realises just how long it is—definitely longer than the essays he’d had to write back at Hogwarts and the contracts he has his own clients read and sign.

 

“Yes,” says Harry in a serious tone. “It is very important.”

 

“Can’t I just tell you if I don’t like something?”

 

Harry frowns. “It doesn’t work like that.”

 

Draco runs his eyes over the bottom of the parchment, his face heating as he reads some more of the activities listed. “What’s a golden shower?” he asks.

 

“It’s sexual play involving urination,” Harry replies without missing a beat.

 

Draco lets out a bark of shock. “You’re having me on. There’s no way people like that stuff.” He quickly looks up at Harry with worry. “You don’t like that, do you?”

 

“Not particularly,” Harry responds seriously, “but I know plenty who do. That’s why these”—he nods at the contract—“are so important.”

 

“But,” Draco starts with a swallow, “it’s _sex._ I get it: I’m a virgin. Okay, that’s done. You’re my boyfriend, not my bloody lawyer.”

 

Harry sighs and stands up, turning away. Draco thinks for a second he’s just going to leave, when he turns and opens up the Muggle refrigerator and takes out a beer, twisting the cap off on the counter and letting it clatter to the floor. He takes a big sip before responding. “I know that you’re embarrassed by this, Draco, but think about it this way; how do you think I would have reacted if you’d walked into the house and suddenly started throwing spells and axes at the walls without my permission?”

 

He immediately knows where Harry is going with this, and opens his mouth to protest, but Harry holds up his hand to silence him.

 

“This contract is essential. Safety and consent come first. If you don’t want to read or sign it, then fine, we’ll go back to vanilla. I can do vanilla.”

 

“I don’t want vanilla,” Draco says softly, eyes downcast.

 

“Me neither, to be honest,” Harry replies.

 

Draco lets out a shaky breath. “Do I need to go over it with you, or on my own?”

 

“Whichever you are more comfortable with. I can explain anything you don’t understand. I want to do everything I can to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible. I don’t want this to be embarrassing for you.”

 

Nodding, Draco turns back to the contract. It really is thorough. Draco wonders how many of these contracts Harry has done, then stops himself before the sharp clench of jealousy becomes too great for him to handle. He has Harry now, somehow. That’s all that matters. “Can we do it now?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” says Harry, putting his hand on Draco’s arm reassuringly. They both turn to the parchment.

 

The first section is simple enough, asking about Draco’s general history and health. He can’t think of anything important there, and intends to leave it blank until Harry stops him.

 

“Have you been tested?”

 

“Tested?” Draco asks.

 

“For STIs.”

 

“What are those?”

 

Harry grimaces then bites his lip. “Right. Pure-blood, I forgot.” He taps the table. “Sexually transmitted infections. We’ll need to get you tested. My last test was six months ago so I should probably go again, even though I always use protection charms. We can go to St. Mungo’s sometime this week.”

 

“But I’ve never had sex,” Draco says.

 

“They can be spread other ways, and some pretty dangerous ones are passed along genetically, especially in pure-blood families. It’s better to be safe.”

 

Though he’s never heard of these kinds of infections before, Draco trusts Harry to be the expert. He moves to the next section, reading it aloud. “Safewords? I think I remember reading about those. Do I choose, or do you?”

 

“You decide,” says Harry with a nod of encouragement. “I like using three—one for completely stopping, another for if you’re approaching your limit and we need to slow down, and a third to keep going. Choose something easy for you to remember, something I won’t mistake for a different word. Also, something you might typically say during sex isn’t very good, so I’d advise against ‘Merlin’, ‘Godric’, or ‘Salazar’. The standard is ‘red’ for stop, ‘yellow’ for nearing a limit, and ‘green’ for continue.”

 

Draco hums, thinking for a few moments. He looks around the dusty kitchen for inspiration, but comes up empty. “We could use house-elf names: Kreacher?” he asks with a nervous laugh, his neck heating. “I don’t know. This is difficult. Can we stick with colours for now?” He lets out another nervous laugh, feeling like an idiot; hopefully Harry hasn’t noticed.

 

He apparently does, though. “Hey, it’s okay. House-elf names can work.” Harry reaches up and tucks a strand of Draco’s hair back behind his ear, smiling reassuringly when Draco blushes. “I know this is all kind of awkward, yeah?”

 

Draco nods. “I feel kind of silly.”

 

“It’s okay to feel silly, but there’s no reason to be embarrassed, it’s just me. This is all very new for you, I want to make it as easy as possible.”

 

Harry’s got that right. Just weeks ago, Draco was the picture of innocence. Now he’s considering defiling house-elves’ names and the colours of the rainbow for the purposes of sex. It all feels quite wicked, really. But Harry doesn’t seem to mind; he’s been nothing but supportive and caring. Draco feels he is in good hands. He already trusts Harry wholeheartedly, and knows that this instance is no different. The other wizard knows what he’s doing.

 

“Let’s stick with colours,” Draco decides, unsure yet if he wants to call out the word ‘Kreacher’ during sex, even if it means they’re stopping.

 

Harry nods in agreement, and Draco writes ‘red for stop, yellow for approaching limit, green for continue’ in the space provided. His usually elegant scrawl is a bit wobbly, which he maintains is from Harry’s rubbish quills rather than the fact that his hand is unsteady with edgy—but excited—nerves. They move to the next section, which asks what the sub will be called. He quickly writes ‘anything but Malfoy’, then looks at Harry for confirmation.

 

“Good to know,” Harry mumbles with approval. “May I ask why?”

 

Draco shrugs, because he’s not really sure. He tells this to Harry, then adds softly, “I’ve been Malfoy to you for too long.”

 

“Well, I think that’s fair, then.” Harry takes the quill from Draco and writes ‘anything but Potter’ in the space where it asks what the Dom will be called. He winks.

 

“What do your subs typically call you?” Draco asks, suddenly feeling a bit braver. Harry’s confidence is seeming to radiate down to him; he’s assured.

 

“‘Sir’ is my usual favourite,” Harry says, and Draco’s breath catches. “I like ‘Master’, as well. But I quite like just ‘Harry’ when it comes from your lips.”

 

Head swimming, Draco lets his eyes fall to Harry’s mouth as he says this. “Can I say all of them?” he asks.

 

“Gods, yes.”

 

Draco’s heart thuds loudly in his chest as Harry replies, and he wonders if the other wizard can hear it in the otherwise silent kitchen.

 

“I hope you don’t think that I’m being overbearing or anything,” Harry then adds. “But these contracts…. They’re very important for me. I’ve had a lot of things in the past go wrong for people I care about because of others trying to use me, and the last thing I want is for that to affect you.”

 

Harry looks like he wants to say more, so Draco sets the quill down and nods for him to continue. Harry gives him a small smile, and somehow it’s incredibly intimate.

 

“I mean, it’s why I quit the Aurors, really. I didn’t completely hate it, although I will admit I’ve had enough of fighting dark wizards. But everyone was always trying to use me and not really trusting me in terms of actual Auror work. They trusted me for my name, not my actions.” Harry bites his lip, suddenly furrowing his eyebrows and looking downtrodden. “I… I almost lost someone—my Auror partner. We were tracking down what we thought was just an illegal potions trader, and found ourselves in a hostage situation. Turns out the suspect was a brother of one of the Fallen Fifty and thought I would be able to use some sort of old dark magic that Voldemort left in me to bring his sister back from the dead.”

 

While the Dark Lord’s name leaves a sickly feeling in Draco’s stomach and throat, the twisted look on Harry’s face when he talks about bringing people back from the dead echoes an unmentionable melancholy, a type of pain that Draco doesn’t even want to begin to bring back for his boyfriend. Of all the agony he himself had to experience during the War, it was at least somewhat comprehensible; with how he’d grown up, it _made sense._ He’d made terrible mistakes, of which had immense consequences. But what Harry had dealt with was… _unimaginable._

 

“What happened next?” Draco asks.

 

“He held my Auror partner at wand point, threatened to kill him if I couldn’t bring his sister back. Luckily back-up came quickly, but I really thought I was going to have to watch my partner be killed.” Harry takes a shuddering breath before he continues. “I’ve seen enough people hurt because of my name; I wanted out, to just be left alone for once in my life. Things had just always been so out of my control but also so reliant on me being Harry Potter. Like, if I’d been anyone else it would have been okay.”

 

“I like you for being Harry,” says Draco then. And he means it. He doesn’t so much as care about the whole Saviour of the Wizarding World thing—though the strength and bravery is most admirable. He likes those green eyes, the dark skin, the unruly black hair, the lightning bolt scar. He likes the compassion, the sensitivity, the soft touches which carry so much affection that Draco doesn’t know what to do with it all. He may even _love_ all of these things and the man they make up.

 

“I appreciate that,” Harry says earnestly. “So much.”

 

He takes Draco’s hand in his, and again, Draco’s heart soars as they have a small moment with one another.

 

“You know,” says Harry gruffly, “I think BDSM was kind of exactly what I needed.” He clears his throat, then continues. “It gave me a way to be in control of who I am and the actions that come with it. And besides”—he scratches at his head, causing a massive cowlick to emerge at the top—“I’ve actually only slept with a few wizards…. Er, a couple wizards and one witch, rather. It’s mostly been Muggle men, since they don’t know who I am—it’s easier that way.” A look of horror comes across Harry’s features. “Jesus, that makes it sound like I’ve slept around lots, doesn’t it? I haven’t, I swear.”

 

Draco laughs out loud. “It’s fine,” he tells Harry, honestly. “I mean, I can’t help but be a tad jealous. But you _are_ a twenty-four-year-old man; of course you’ll have had some partners before.”

 

“Okay,” Harry says with a nod, “as long as it doesn’t upset you.”

 

Draco shrugs. “There’s nothing I can do about it, honestly,” he says. “And besides, the extra experience you have over me is… _very_ sexy.”

 

And he means it.

 

Harry grins, almost looking _shy,_ and it warms Draco’s heart.

 

“That’s a good thing,” says Harry. “Anyway, what I was saying is that I’m glad I found BDSM. It’s really helped me to discover myself. And not just in terms of sex, but living in general. I was carrying something else during the War, and only recently I’ve figured out what kind of man I am without it.”

 

Although Harry’s words are cryptic, Draco agrees with them wholly. He can tell how open Harry is being right now; they don’t need to unlock all the details at this point, when they’re still in the baby steps of their relationship. Just the fact that Harry is so trusting of Draco, to share these intimate emotions with someone he used to hate, is meaningful in and of itself.

 

After hearing what Harry had to say about the Aurors, his past relationships, and the weight he’s carried, Draco understands Harry’s urgency with the contract. He lets their conversation run over him as they go over the rest of the parchment together, making notes on preferences and comfort levels. As they move onto the list of kinks, scenes, and toys, Draco finds himself stirring with excitement at what is to come with Harry. He reads each line carefully, making sure to consider the ins and outs of each thing. A couple of times he has to ask Harry for clarification, but as he finishes writing _‘yes’_ next to whipping, the last item on the list, he feels quite proud of himself. He looks to Harry for approval, and the other man nods.

 

“Very impressive,” he says as he scans the list. “You’re very keen.”

 

“I trust you, Harry,” says Draco. “I want to experience as much as I can with you.”

 

The sly grin Harry gives him then is one of the most arousing things he’s ever seen, like Draco is a _feast_ just calling to be attended to. It’s the kind of thing that makes him want to just drop his trousers, bend over the nearest surface, and let Harry have his bloody way with him. Instead, he swallows, shifts in his seat, and reaches for the quill to sign the contract.

 

“There’s one more thing,” says Harry then.

 

Draco looks up from the parchment and nods at Harry to continue—his hand pauses in the air poised to write, a single drop of ink dripping down from the quill and staining the contract where he’s meant to sign.

 

“You probably know this from the Fidelius Charm over the house and the fact that when I go out it’s only to Muggle London, but I’ve had to be very private since quitting.”

 

“Yes, I’ve realised,” replies Draco.

 

“I need to make sure that you understand that this”—Harry waves between the two of them—“stays private.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I mean,” Harry says, “I’ve of course told Ron and Hermione about you, and the rest of the Weasleys know I’m seeing someone. But other than that, no one knows. It’s not going to be a typical relationship; we will have to be very careful about where we go and what we do and how we act around each other. Bad things could happen if news about our relationship gets into the wrong hands.”

 

“Pansy knows about us,” Draco says.

 

Harry laughs. “Right, Pansy. Of course. How could I forgot that you two are basically attached at the hip?”

 

“I love her but she’s also like a parasite on my life. Even if we pushed her completely out, she’d find a way to worm her way back in.”

 

Harry’s laugh grows. “You’re right. She would. Merlin, she’s probably going to end up knowing more about our sex lives than we do.”

 

“Oh, she already does,” Draco confirms, turning back to the contract and neatly signing his name. “She was ready to pounce the other night as soon as I got home; I’ve no idea how she finds out about these things.”

 

“Well,” says Harry, grabbing the quill from Draco and messily scrawling his signature alongside Draco’s, “as long as she doesn’t go off telling the _Prophet_ or _Witch Weekly_ or whomever else keeps trying to scoop up any and all information about my private life, then I think we’ll be okay. There!” He taps his wand to the parchment, drying the ink. “That’s all done. See, wasn’t so bad. And if we ever want to change anything, the parchment is charmed to recognise that.”

 

Draco nods, scanning back over it a couple of times. “Okay,” he says, “when do we start?”


	12. Chapter 12

Draco feels like he’s prepared this time as he gets ready for his date with Harry. The nerves are still there, resonating with clammy hands and an indecisiveness on what to wear, but in the end, it won’t matter; when they get to their hotel for the night, the hints of ferocity that Draco has just glimpsed in Harry so far will have ripped every bit of clothing from his body and leave him sprawled out, ready for devouring. His heart thrums with excitement as he considers his wardrobe, Pansy sat on his bed filing her short but neat nails down.

 

He eyes a hunter green cashmere jumper and holds it up in front of him, looking to Pansy for approval. She purses her red lips. “Which trousers?” she asks.

 

Looking at his selection of slim, pressed trousers, Draco decides against the jumper and folds it neatly. “I think it’s too casual. Who knew getting dressed for a _Muggle_ restaurant would be so bloody difficult?” He sighs as he glances at some of his more Muggle appropriate robes with a frown.

 

Pansy lets out a shrill laugh. “Darling, I’ve known you since we were in nappies. You dating Potter has _nothing_ to do with taking for-fucking-ever to decide what to wear. Salazar, remember the _Yule Ball?”_

 

“Shut it, Parkinson,” Draco snaps, his eyes trailing over an elegant blazer embroidered with fine golden thread around the sleeves, collar, and pockets. His mother had purchased it for him while on holiday in Egypt a couple years ago, but it’s yet to leave his wardrobe. He fingers the soft material when he takes the blazer in hand, marvelling at its simplicity. A matching silk scarf sits neatly on the shelf, and with a flick of his wand, comes to rest over the blazer. It’s delicate, but stately. Hopefully, Harry will appreciate it.

 

Draco lifts the blazer and scarf from the wardrobe, looking at Pansy again for her opinion. When she nods appreciatively, he breathes in a sigh of relief. He moves to leave the room to change, and Pansy lets out a grumble of protest. “I see how it is.”

 

“I don’t want you ogling me,” he calls through the wall.

 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before. Remember, _nappies,_ Draco. Are you forgetting we dated in Hogwarts?”

 

“Yes, well, both of our circumstances have changed since, don’t you think?” he asks as he comes back in, smoothing down his trousers.

 

Pansy raises an eyebrow as she takes in his appearance. “You look hot,” she admits. “I’d tie you up and fuck you if I wasn’t a lesbian.”

 

“Thanks, Pansy,” Draco says with a roll of his eyes. He steps in front of the mirror, playing with the scarf until it ruffles neatly around his neck. “Right. I think I’m ready?” Just as he turns to Pansy for one last rush of reassurance, a soft knock comes from the door.

 

“That’s my cue to leave,” Pansy drawls, standing with a swish of her hips and moving towards the Floo. She tosses a handful of powder into the Floo and a curl of green flames begin to grow. “Have fun tonight, darling.”

 

Draco watches as his best friend disappears into the flames with one last wink, then turns to the door with growing thrill and nervousness. He steadies his shoulders with one last big breath, reminding himself that it’s just Harry, Harry who has been nothing but loving and kind and supportive. He opens the door and is immediately struck breathless.

 

Whoever in Salazar’s name has dressed Harry Potter this evening deserves an Order of Merlin, First Class. He is wearing a deep red shirt, held together at the top with a stag broach that could only be goblin-made. Over it is a Brunswick green waistcoat and a dark tweed coat, its shoulders curved up in a way that makes Harry’s already impressive form even more intimidating. Tucked into his collar is a simple warm scarf with paisley print—it _shouldn’t_ match, but somehow, the outfit is perfect. After six years of Not Stalking in Hogwarts and six more years of eyes constantly peeling over every bloody copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly,_ Draco can honestly say he’s never seen the Boy Who Lived look so fucking _fit_. And his hair…. It’s atrocious, but Draco’s never wanted to hold onto it for dear life more than this moment now as Harry’s eyes slowly roam every inch of the blond’s body, finally settling on his eyes with a quick lick of his dark lips.

 

“Fuck,” says Harry, “I can’t wait to have you.”

 

When they Apparate away, they re-emerge amongst the hustle and bustle of Covent Garden, slipping easily into the herds of luxury shoppers and theatre-goers. Draco feels much more comfortable with this crowd than he did on his last venture into Muggle London with Harry. He’s more familiar with the area, with the gazes of the affluent as they walk slowly down the cobbled streets, hand in hand. A woman in black Louboutins and a sharp pencil skirt lets her eyes trail to Draco’s arse, and the low growl that Harry lets emanate from his throat sparks something deep and primal in the pit of Draco’s stomach.

 

He loves it, the feeling of brazen, unashamed belonging he has to Harry. They can all look, but no one will ever touch him the way Harry touches him.

 

They stop in front of a regal white building, a red awning covering its modest entrance, adorned with simple hedges and shrubbery. “Here we are,” says Harry, looking up at the name, “Close Maggie Or.”

 

Draco can’t help but let out a shriek of a giggle at Harry’s butchered pronunciation. “Clos Maggiore,” he corrects him, his voice lilting to accommodate the French and Italian accents.

 

“Right, that,” says Harry with a cheeky grin. He steps forward to hold the door open, waving his hand as Draco gently steps into the restaurant.

 

The space is full of people dressed from smart casual to long, sparkling gowns and pressed suits, generating a discernible yet pleasant hum of conversation and clinking of glasses and cutlery. A smiling woman in a smart black suit takes them through the festively adorned restaurant and into a large, warm conservatory with a crackling fireplace embellished in traditional Christmas decorations in the middle, which their table sits right beside. Harry pulls out Draco’s seat for him and Draco’s cheeks heat at the gesture. His language skills may be mediocre at best, but Harry certainly seems to know how to act like a gentleman.

 

“This is certainly something,” Draco says fondly when their host leaves them with the wine list. Harry’s hand holds Draco’s fingers atop the table as his eyes search the list from behind his glasses, occasionally squinting at something.

 

“To be honest,” says Harry, glancing up at Draco goofily, “I’ve never been to a place like this before.” He gestures wildly to the table. “I have no idea what to do. Why are there two wine glasses?” Draco bites his lip to suppress a laugh. He knows Harry is admitting his inexperience in order to make him more comfortable, to put them on a somewhat even territory. It helps, if only a little.

 

Harry lets Draco pick the wine—he decides on a 2011 Pinot Noir—and they settle into easy but charged conversation. Harry continuously teases as they sip their wine and order starters, letting his fingers trail over the pulse point on Draco’s left wrist and slipping his foot tantalisingly slow up his calf beneath the white table cloth. Draco’s cheeks heat as Harry raises a brow, and he shifts to look around, making sure no one can tell what they’re doing. When he’s sure everyone around is equally engrossed in their own conversations, he turns back to Harry as their salads are placed in front of them.

 

The truffle vinaigrette balances delicately on the tongue, and silence falls over them as Draco and Harry both savour the flavour of the greens, their forks joining the sounds of the others around them. It’s when their first plates are cleared and Harry tells the waitress they need a few more minutes with the menu that Draco feels the tell-tale prickle of magic encompassing them.

 

“What did you just cast?” he asks as the hum of the restaurant dies down, leaving him and Harry in a sphere of stillness.

 

“Notice-Me-Not,” Harry responds with a sly grin. “Just for a second.”

 

“Oh,” Draco gasps in reply, cheeks heating as Harry’s foot—now just socked—travels further up his calf and to his thigh. “Fuck, Harry,” he hisses.

 

“I’ve been looking forward to tonight for so long, Draco,” he responds. His foot feels so warm on his thigh, seemingly burning holes through his pressed trousers. “I can’t wait to show you everything. You’re going to be so beautiful.”

 

Draco blushes further, but keeps his eyes linked with Harry’s. “I can’t wait to let you have your way with me,” he says. Then, quietly, he adds, “Sir.”

 

Across the table, Harry’s eyes darken with lust. “Are you trying to rile me up? Because it’s working.”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Harry’s lips part, and he leans forward to press them closer to Draco’s ear. As he does so, Draco feels the press of Harry’s foot between his legs. He lets out the tiniest whimper as Harry’s toe just barely brushes his crotch. “Naughty boy,” Harry whispers, the roll of the ‘boy’ coming out sharp, quick, sending a trail of shivers down Draco’s spine.

 

Just as he thinks Harry’s going to say something else, the other wizard leans back and there’s a soft snap, the buzz of the restaurant coming back into focus. Draco is left in a daze, the scent of Harry seeming to linger just out of touch as his foot pulls away, leaving Draco’s cock just barely alert and ready for anything in an instant. When the waitress arrives and asks them if they’re ready to order dinner, all the magic that was just in the air dissipates, and it’s just a regular night again, except for the fact he’s on a date with Harry Potter and is going to have the fuck of his life in just a few short hours.

 

He wants to stand up, to shout it out to the Muggles in the restaurant. He wants to grin at the waitress, to tell her, “no, actually, I think we’ll take the check, please. I want my boyfriend to bugger me senseless right now, and I don’t think that would be appropriate in this establishment.” Instead, he smiles up with her with what he hopes is the face of innocence, and says, “I’ll have the sea trout, thank you.”

 

“And I’ll take the rib of beef,” adds Harry, his eyes glistening as he stares at Draco when he says it.

 

The waitress smiles at them kindly, tops up their wine glasses, and walks away.

 

Harry directs the conversation towards more harmless topics—Grimmauld Place, the Quidditch game he went to with Teddy Lupin last week, the cold weather, the restaurant’s decorations—and Draco enjoys watching him talk animatedly as he sips his wine and occasionally nods. Their plates come a bit later, beautifully presented and smelling of luxury. The flavours are impeccable, mimicking the dinners Draco used to have in pure-blood manors and estates all across Britain and Europe in his childhood. Nothing compares to the company, however; Harry is stupidly charming and romantic, pulling each and every one of Draco’s strings to make him feel praised and important.

 

It’s the subtle things, the circling of Harry’s thumb on his wrist, the little hums the man gives as he bites into his food for the first time. It’s the way he confidently mutilates the correct table etiquette, frequently placing his elbows besides his plate and dipping his pinky finger into the red wine sauce to slurp it up. And then he does it again, only this time holding his hand across the table and up to Draco’s lips, silently asking permission to pry them open.

 

Throwing twenty-four-and-a-half-years of manners away, Draco lets him. It’s the kind of thing that would send his father rolling in his grave, so he gives an extra little suckle to Harry’s finger, just for good measure. He thinks to himself, in the middle of one of the nicest restaurants he’s ever dined in with Harry Potter’s finger placed sinuously in his mouth, that he might just be in love with this man.

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

As Harry lets the buckle around Draco’s left wrist close, securing it to the underneath hooks of the extravagant king-sized bed in the hotel and whispering encouragements every few seconds to him, Draco confirms in his steadily clouding brain that he is _so_ in love with this man. There’s a trail of abandoned clothing leading from the door of the suite to the bed, the thick curtains drawn shut to keep them hidden away from the busy Soho streets outside. This is their palace—their sanctuary—until the walls of number twelve, Grimmauld Place are deemed ready for their pleasures.

 

Draco’s blood pressure has been steadily rising since they left the restaurant, walking aimlessly through some of the shops in Covent Garden before finding a small, secluded alley and making the short Apparition trip to a spot behind a Boots nearby to the hotel. All throughout the check-in process, Harry had taken to not-so-subtly running his knuckles over Draco’s pulse points on his wrist and neck, causing the blond to frequently catch his breath and pray the smartly dressed woman at the front desk hadn’t noticed. She’d winked at Harry as she handed over their room key, reminding Draco of Pansy and the look that had dawned on her face when Draco had told her where Harry and he were having their first scene.

 

Now, amongst the deep grey textiles and dark brown woods of the room as his other wrist is secured tightly to its bindings, Draco takes steadying breaths and finds himself completely at peace with the situation, ready to give Harry everything he could possibly ask for. His chest rises and falls not with anxiety, but with arousal.

 

“Are you comfortable?” Harry asks, his voice quiet but strong in the still air of the room.

 

Draco watches the way Harry’s skin darkens with a blush when he replies, softly, “Yes, Sir.”

 

“Tell me your safewords,” says Harry as he runs his fingers down the pale expanse of Draco’s leg, letting them linger atop his toes before he slips the leather strap around his delicate, narrow ankle.

 

“Green, yellow, red,” Draco breathes, his lips hardly moving. He’s already begun sweating with arousal.

 

Harry pauses and looks at him. “I didn’t hear that,” he says.

 

“Green, yellow, red,” Draco says again, this time a bit louder.

 

The buckle straps shut with a sharp _clack_ and Harry steps back, trailing Draco’s big toe with his thumb and forefinger. “Good boy,” he says huskily.

 

Draco stares down at his own chest as Harry’s eyes rake over his body, growing hungrier and hungrier. Harry himself is still partway dressed, his red shirt unbuttoned and hanging to the sides to reveal his toned brown chest, his trousers tented in the front by his growing cock. He makes no move to take off any of the items as he slowly lowers himself above Draco, his strong arms on either side of Draco’s head as he leans his lips down next to his ear.

 

“Are you ready?” asks Harry.

 

Draco tests his bound limbs with a little pull; the leather is soft but sturdy, keeping him spread and open, and the bindings are completely Muggle, impervious to any wandless spell Draco may mumble in hopes of getting some kind of relief—not that his mind is even clear enough to focus on any kind of spells, especially without a wand. He nods to Harry. “I’m ready,” he whispers.

 

Harry hums with a reassuring smile to Draco before his eyes turn wanton again. He pulls up to stand, his hands coming to wrap tightly around Draco’s ankles, just above where the bindings hold him flat onto the bed. Harry’s grip is strong, bruising, _grounding._ His touch is hot on Draco’s flushed skin, his fingers burning circles of fire as they massage roughly against the muscles in his calf leading up his leg, closer and closer to where Draco wants his touch to land.

 

Something long and black flings suddenly across the room and Harry barely flinches as he reaches up and grabs it from the air. Draco realises with a rush of heat to his cock that Harry’s just wordlessly and wandlessly cast _Accio,_ but he has little time to consider it as, abruptly, the item lands across his thigh with a harsh _slap_. Draco shrieks involuntarily at the sudden spark of pain, pulling at his restraints as he arches automatically away from the touch of the leather flogger. “Oh _fuck,”_ he whines to Harry, who chuckles to himself as he rubs his hand softly over the bright red welt he’s just left on Draco’s pale white skin.

 

“How does that feel, beautiful?” Harry asks, his fingers coming up to tuck a stray bit of blond hair behind Draco’s ear.

 

“It feels wonderful, Sir,” Draco replies, already breathless. And he means it. When the flogger comes down again on his other thigh, he jumps and cries out, completely helpless as the leather cuffs hold him down. Though he is bound, he feels more free than he’s ever felt before, lost in this haze of lust and submission which Harry has put him in in just a minute of play. “Please,” he whispers. “More.”

 

“Greedy, are we?” Harry says gruffly, landing the flogger sharply across Draco’s thighs again with another _slap._ “You’ve always been greedy, Draco. Now look at you, spread wide and virgin, greedy for _me.”_

 

“Yes, greedy for you, Harry,” Draco whines in reply, arching his hips up in the hopes that Harry will touch his now fully-hard cock. He knows it won’t be of any use; Harry’s promised to tease him until he pleads.

 

With the way Harry moves around him, his eyes dark and narrowed, shoulders up and broad, there’s no mistaking that he knows who he is, that he knows the _power_ he has in the palms of his hands. He’s Harry fucking Potter, and for once in his life, he’s not here to play saint. He’s here to strip Draco raw, to wreck him until there’s nothing left but his blissfully empty body sprawled out on the bed.

 

When the flogger lands on his skin the fourth time, Draco shocks himself with the mewl that erupts from his throat; it’s sharp, loud, almost like a fox’s cry in the night. His thighs are already shaking from the sting, and it feels absolutely so _wonderful_ that he wonders, briefly, how something so painful can feel so perfect.

 

“We’re only getting started, and you’re already making such beautiful noises,” Harry praises, cupping Draco’s cheek softly and pressing a gentle kiss to the edge of his lip. Draco arches upwards for more, but Harry quickly withdraws his touch and puts his hand out in the air. A small tube zips from Harry’s discarded robes, landing perfectly into his outstretched hand. He sets it aside before turning back to Draco, grinning mischievously as Draco lets out another whine at Harry’s wandless, wordless magic. “I wonder what you’re going to sound like when I touch your arse for the first time.”

 

Draco’s breath catches as he realises the tube that Harry has summoned is lube. It’s a small, subtle black bottle, but the sounding _crack_ as Harry pops the lid open is harsh in the still room. Draco watches with intent as Harry squirts a hefty amount onto his fingers, rubbing them together briefly.

 

“Did you prepare yourself as I instructed?”

 

Draco nods shyly, his face heating as he remembers performing that weird spell in the toilet of Clos Maggiore before leaving to Apparate to the hotel. Harry had taught the spell to him before, when they were going over the contract, telling him it was the most convenient way to ensure cleanliness. The wash of magic over and inside his most intimate areas had been strange but helpful, and Draco was glad for the spell; he hates to think of what the Muggles have to do instead.

 

“Check?” Harry asks gently, coaxing Draco out from his brief contemplation and moving his shaking thighs apart with a brief touch.

 

“Green,” Draco replies immediately, confidently.

 

Harry places a kiss to the inside of Draco’s thigh, just over one of the raised welts from the leather flogger. “Good. You’re doing so well, Draco,” he hums into the heated skin. “You’re being so good for me.” As he says this, he brings his fingers up to Draco’s arse crack, carefully avoiding his straining cock and tightening balls.

 

The lube is cool on Draco’s skin, and he jumps at the first contact. He trusts Harry completely, and is well-versed in the use of his own fingers, but the touch of another there for the first time is still exciting and unfamiliar. Harry is calm and patient, running his fingers gently up and down his crack until the lube warms and becomes more comfortable.

 

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles with another kiss to his thigh. “Should’ve used the warming spell first, I got ahead of myself.”

 

“S’okay,” Draco responds with a shuddering breath as Harry’s fingers dance around his rim for the first time. “Oh, _fuck,”_ he shouts as the other man’s index finger teases his entrance, just barely dipping in before retreating. “Harry,” he whines.

 

“Mm, you like that?” Harry asks.

 

Draco nods, choking on a gasp as Harry teases his entrance again and again, still only with one finger and barely slipping inside. This lasts for a few more agonisingly slow minutes, Harry only just taunting him before Draco decides he can’t take such teasing—it’s the type of thing that drives him insane with impatience. He asks for more, his voice lilting on a whine, and Harry only smiles before removing his hand from Draco’s arse completely.

 

Draco cries out a complaint before the flogger is landing on him again, this time the leather frills touching just millimetres from his reddened cock. “I’m in charge of the pace, here,” Harry reminds him sternly.

 

“Yes, Sir,” Draco breathes out, the air from his lungs having escaped him when he was hit with the flogger. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

 

A gruff moan comes from the back of Harry’s throat as he leans forward. “I’m going to have to punish you now, Draco.”

 

The words nearly leave Draco blind. He wants the touch of Harry’s skin on his so badly, knows he’ll have to behave better, to continue to please his Harry. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he says again. “I can do better, please.”

 

With an effort, his lover bends over and fumbles with something beneath the bed. “Scoot up a bit,” Harry says then, his voice a bit softer. “Check?”

 

“Green,” Draco repeats from earlier.

 

Harry nods, then there’s the sound of metal on metal. Draco moves up on the bed closer to the plush headboard, the leather restraints coming with him. Harry stands back up, the flogger grasped in hand. “Turn over,” he commands. With a wave of his hand, magic sparks across Draco and detaches his bound wrists from the bed.

 

Draco scrambles to comply, flipping to lay on his front before obediently holding out his arms for his wrists to be reattached to the bed. Magic rushes over him again, and with a sharp tug, he’s tied down once more. Before he can consider what Harry’s going to do next, searing pain falls across his arse cheeks from where the flogger has been laid down quickly and roughly. He yelps, the sound ripping from his throat to crescendo into a cry of hot, painful pleasure.

 

From this position, he realises, he can press his hips into the mattress to relieve some of the pressure building on his cock. Harry, however, seems to realise the same thing, because before Draco can thrust down, Harry whispers _“Immobulus Coxae”,_ freezing Draco’s pelvis just above the bed. When he tries and pushes down, he finds himself stuck, one part of his body completely paralysed while the rest gives a weak pull at the restraints.

 

“Fuck,” Draco gasps in frustration.

 

“Always a Slytherin,” Harry snickers before cracking the flogger across Draco’s cheeks again. The blond lets out a yelp as he is lurched forward with his hips planted firmly in the air. His abdomen aches from holding himself upright, as do his thighs and arms, shaking with exertion. “You Slytherins think you’re so slick, always one step ahead of the game, hmm? What you don’t know, Draco, is that I was almost sorted into Slytherin. I’ll always be one step ahead of you.” He punctuates each word in his last sentence with a sharp flick of the flogger against the tops of Draco’s thighs, the bits of leather making a satisfying _smack_ with each hit.

 

“Harry,” Draco cries. He leans his head down, unable to keep arching over to watch Harry. His chest is heaving with effort, unable to process the multiple sensations crossing over his body. From pain to pleasure, it churns and runs through his veins, making rivulets in his soul and slowly shredding him down, thinner and thinner.

 

 _Slap!_ The flogger comes down again, a few of the tails straying to land harshly on Draco’s balls.

 

“Oh, oh, _oh…_ Harry!” Draco keens as Harry’s hands grabs his arse, massaging the cheeks roughly apart.

 

“So red for me, baby,” says Harry breathlessly. “That’s enough of the flogger, for now. You took it so well.”

 

“Thank you, Sir,” Draco gasps in reply, his face falling forward to smash into the pillows of the bed. His body trembles as he attempts to collect his breath, to mentally prepare for whatever Harry has next for him. He thinks he’s done well, so far.

 

Harry’s hands continue to rub Draco’s bum, paying careful attention to the sensitive areas where the flogger had marked him. “Your skin is so beautiful like this. It _glistens,_ Draco.”

 

Something wet comes to suck at the base of Draco’s spine, just above where his crack starts and where Harry had delivered one of the roughest hits. The kisses are sloppy and tender, soothing his sensitive, reddened skin, and Draco lets out a moan, wishing with all his might that he could move his hips again. “Harry,” he whines, the ‘a’ dragging out longer than he expected when Harry’s finger comes up to tease his rim again. “Harry, please.”

 

“Please what?” His finger pushes in just barely, Draco’s muscles clenching down immediately. He pulls at the restraints, the leather twisting and groaning with his attempts.

 

“Please, Sir, may I have more?” he asks on a whimper.

 

Harry chuckles and removes his fingers again, the pressure on his rim alleviating uncomfortably. Harry is warm over him as he leans down, running his fingers through Draco’s hair and praising him. “So polite and compliant, I think you’re ready for more. Check?”

 

“Green.”

 

Something in the air crackles, with swirls of heat and arousal encompassing the two bodies on the bed. The _snap_ of the lube bottle opening again permeates the room, and it’s a few brief, heated moments until Harry’s finger is plunging back into Draco’s arsehole. Draco writhes and lets out a strangled scream as he’s breached, Harry immediately curling his finger up to find Draco’s prostate for the first time and prod it with quick succession. If Draco’s cock wasn’t still frozen, straining towards contact with the bed, he would be coming by now. He’s almost surprised he _doesn’t;_ Harry’s one finger—along with being tied up and flogged for some time before—is already enough to leave his vision cloudy and his cock feeling like it might explode at any moment.

 

When another finger joins the first and begins to tease at his rim, however, Draco feels the first prickle of unease settle into his stomach. He’s determined to go on, but Harry must notice his hesitation because he promptly removes his fingers from Draco’s arse and places a reassuring hand upon his flank, asking, quietly, “check?”

 

“M’fine,” Draco mumbles, ashamed that he’s tensed up so suddenly. “Green, I mean.”

 

“Are you sure?” Harry asks hesitantly.

 

“Yes. Please, Harry.”

 

Tentatively, Harry’s two fingers return with some more lube, circling him for a few long moments before slowly pushing in. An ache is there, uncomfortable rather than strictly painful, and Draco takes a few deep breaths to accommodate the intrusion. As soon as Harry’s fingers begin twisting and stretching inside of him, the discomfort gives way to little sparks of pleasure, and it’s the occasional prods at his prostate after a few more minutes of easy stretching and reassuring kisses which turn those little sparks of pleasure into rushes of quick, hard arousal. Though Draco’s cock had softened a bit when Harry’s fingers first entered him, it is back to full hardness now as the other wizard seems reassured Draco is enjoying himself again, plunging his strong fingers in and out, in and out, the obscene noises of slippery wetness and cursing moans quickly filling the room.

 

“Oh _fuck._ Harry, fuck!” Draco shouts as Harry makes aim at his prostate, hitting it harshly with each thrust of his fingers which are now knuckle-deep in Draco’s arsehole. The sensations are _immense,_ running through Draco’s body at a pace and intensity similar to that of a summer’s thunderstorm, electric, unrelenting. Tears have begun to run from his eyes, falling onto the bed below as Draco is jerked forward with each attack of Harry’s fingers.

 

“Be a good boy, now,” Harry groans, and waves his hand.

 

A jolt of magic shoots through Draco, and he falls down onto the bed with a crash, his cock pressing into the fabrics below. He screams at the sudden sensitivity, bordering between painful and utterly delightful. _“Oh,”_ he whines as he begins to thrust downwards into the mattress, his hips finally free from Harry’s earlier spell. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck.”_

Harry’s fingers are hammering into him now, a third slipping in easily to stretch him even more as his other hand comes around to _finally_ wrap around Draco’s weeping cock. A rush of swears fall from Draco’s lips; he needs to be fucked. Now.

 

“Harry, please,” he gasps, trickles of sweat mixing with the now steady stream of tears escaping from his eyes. “Please, Merlin, _please.”_

“Please what?” Harry growls in his ear, biting down hard on its shell.

 

Draco yowls as the hand on his cock slows to an agonising tempo, leaving him just on the arduous brink of an orgasm, waiting, _pleading._

“Please _what,_ Draco?” Harry repeats, his voice low and severe. He presses against his prostate and Draco lets out another strangled cry, ripped painfully from his hoarse throat.

 

“I want you so bad,” he sobs, his hips undulating desperately against Harry’s still, tight hand. “I can’t take it anymore.”

 

“Is that how you speak to your Master?” Harry prods Draco’s prostate again, sending a sizzle of fire through his legs and back. He’d be coming now if it weren’t for Harry’s tight hold on his cock.

 

He lets out another desperate whine, this time ending in a muffled and pained, “Please, _please_ fuck me.”

 

This seems to satisfy Harry, because he begins to stroke Draco’s cock again with fast and precise movements, the fingers inside him continuously thrusting deep to stimulate his prostate.

 

“Harry, Harry, _Harry,”_ Draco cries, trying to simultaneously thrust forward into Harry’s hand and fuck himself back onto the long, curling fingers. “Please, Sir, fuck me harder!”

 

With a pull, Harry removes his fingers. Draco’s arse clenches around nothing, his thighs trembling with exertion. He gives a shout of protest, and then, he feels something different, bigger, harder, _better._ As Harry pushes into him for the first time, Draco feels like the pulsing coming from the other man’s cock is going to leap out of his chest. Everything around him beats and rings; he’s on the edge of blacking out.

 

“Harry,” he whines, oh so quietly.

 

“Gods, you look gorgeous from here. Gonna make you come on my cock. Do you want that, baby?” Harry’s voice is gruff and dominant as he begins to drive his cock forward.

 

“Yes, Sir,” Draco cries in response. Just the fact that Harry is _inside_ of him is enough to drive him crazy. The fit is perfect; Harry is achingly big, hitting Draco’s prostate _perfectly_ on each hard thrust downwards into him. The pleasure is almost too much, and it takes just a few quick, hard movements before a black curtain begins to close in on the edges of Draco’s vision, fierce waves of heat building, building, building, until he finally bursts into the mightiest orgasm of his life, the swells coursing through him in sync with the thrust of Harry’s cock against his prostate. He shouts the words, “I’m coming!” at least seven times, though it’s muffled by the hot tears dripping down his face and the silk fabric of the pillow he’s buried himself into. His voice hitches into a high-pitched whine as Harry’s hand continues to milk every drop from Draco's pulsing cock, his thick cock continuing to drive roughly inside Draco’s clenching, wet arsehole. Perhaps the most exhilarating sensation of them all, however, is the pain of Harry’s teeth as he bites down hard on Draco’s shoulder, sucking at the bruised and reddened skin as Draco rides out his release on Harry’s cock.

 

It’s a fight against consciousness after the initial push of orgasm, the pulses of heat giving away to little twitches of sparkling sensation. These sensations, as well, begin to calm as his breaths even, slowing down alongside his heart rate as it wavers off. He’s still full of his lover’s cock, and he hears rather than feels him coming. There are low grunts which end on his name, and then silence except for heavy breathing. Just barely, he registers Harry’s spent cock slipping out with a wet sound and his hands and feet gently dropping to the mattress, the sheets soft against his sore wrists and ankles. Harry is saying something to him, but the sentences are completely mangled and foreign to Draco’s ringing ears, only a few select words—something about the lights—coming through the thick fog of exhaustion. He lets out a quiet, broken whine as something soft and heavy falls over him, but it’s just seconds later that his mind slips into deep and blissful unawareness.


	14. Chapter 14

“Draco?”

 

Someone keeps saying his name, but he doesn’t care. For the first time in a very long time, he does not care—nor _need_ to care—about anything. He can just… be.

 

“Draco, love?”

 

The voice is incessant, rising in volume as something heavy, calloused, _warm_ brushes his forehead. A hand…. Whose hand? It feels rough and oh so wonderful, but the voice is still going and he wants it to stop so he can stay just like this.

 

“Baby, it’s time to come back now.”

 

His eyes slowly blink open to reveal a horizontal, dim room, which is definitely not his flat. He’s on a bed and there’s someone next to him, looking down and running their hand through Draco’s hair and over his skin. Memories begin to come back—dinner, the hotel, Harry. It’s _Harry’s_ hand, Harry who is sat next to him, on the bed in the hotel room where they’ve just had…. Eyes widening in realisation, Draco sits up quickly, the duvet draping over his shoulders from where it’s been wrapped around him tightly. “What happened?” he asks Harry, flinching as his voice comes out hoarse.

 

Harry smiles softly down at him, opening his arms as if to invite Draco into them. Draco’s reaction is immediate—almost instinctual—as he buries himself into the other wizard’s chest, shivering slightly as he inhales the sharp, heavy smells of the man. Draco realises now that they’re both naked, and he lets out a breath as Harry’s thumb comes to rub circles into his sore thigh.

 

“You fell very deep into subspace for a bit,” Harry explains.

 

“Oh,” Draco replies simply. He wriggles a bit to get comfortable, gasping at the ache in his legs, arms, and arse. “Is that… a good thing?”

 

“Oh, Draco,” Harry says then, pulling away and looking at him earnestly. “You were _incredible._ I’ve never… I’ve never had a sub so responsive and willing for their first time. Gods, you were perfect.” Harry leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to Draco’s lips, and the blond mewls for more attention. “How was it for you?”

 

Shutting his eyes, Draco recalls the feeling of being bound, helpless, _pleading._ He remembers how it had felt with Harry’s cock buried in his arse, filling him in ways he’s never been filled before, the rush of pain as Harry had bit down on his neck when he came. It had felt better than anything he’d ever experienced before. “It was amazing, Harry. Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

 

“Mm,” Harry grumbles in response, repeating the earlier kiss, to Draco’s delight. “I want to spend all night taking care of you.”

 

“What time is it?” Draco asks curiously; they’d left the restaurant at nine in the evening, though time had become kind of irrelevant once Harry had him tied up.

 

“About half past midnight.” Harry sits up against the headboard and gestures to the right of him to where an open trolley sits, laden with fruits, chocolates, and pastries. There’s also a pot of tea, steaming as if boiled just seconds previous. Draco’s stomach grumbles even though they’d just eaten a few hours ago. “I ordered room service.”

 

“I can see that,” Draco says with a smile. He moves to sit against the headboard alongside Harry, his legs protesting the sudden movement. He lets out a small whimper of pain, and like that, Harry is hovering over him carefully, kissing his eyelids and taking his hands.

 

“I’ve fully-healed most of the sores from the flogger,” he says softly, eyeing Draco’s wrists and running a thumb over one dark bruise, “and I’ve applied healing salves to the bruises, but you’re going to need a bath with some potions for the soreness, I think.”

 

“It feels incredible,” Draco replies shyly, a blush colouring his neck and chest. He shifts, his stomach letting out a protest, then quickly adds, “I’m starving, though.”

 

Harry grins and kisses him firmly on the lips. He lifts his wand, and with a quick wave, a pain au chocolat and some strawberries float over to Draco on a little plate. “Eat up,” he encourages. “You spent a lot of energy, love.”

 

The endearment ringing in his ears, Draco happily takes a bite out of the pastry. It practically melts into his mouth, and he burrows down closer into Harry’s arms, feeling safe and comfortable in this little space they’ve made for themselves. He’s still sore in many places and his skin is sensitive from where the flogger had come down especially hard, but he’s glad Harry has listened to their conditions and kept only to minor healing spells; the pain is a delightful reminder to him of what they’ve just done, of how much he _trusts_ this man. It’s something he never wants to leave behind, to keep to himself for the rest of his life. He thinks to himself that he could fill _pages_ with just the memories of this night, and wonders—briefly—what the future has in store for them, how many books or maybe even libraries he would need to contain all he feels for Harry. For now, though, he’s content to stay right here, wrapped up in the touch and care of his Dom, and forget about anything that isn’t Harry’s embrace.

 

They pick at the pastries and fruit for a while, lazily kissing and touching and bickering about nonsense things like Quidditch teams and wallpaper colours. At some point, Harry puts on the Muggle television in the room and they watch a programme about a Muggle family looking to buy a house in South Wales. Draco makes a few lewd comments about some of the properties they view, criticising the insufficient grouting done on some kitchen tiles and wondering aloud why _anyone_ would install an electric stove top over gas. Harry just laughs fondly and pulls him closer, and they fall into another round of easy snogging.

 

As the programme draws to a close, Draco finds his eyes growing heavier and heavier. They fall shut for the final time that night with Harry whispering into his ear, and they open again in the early morning to the sounds of the other man’s snores filling the room. Inside is still dark, so Draco fumbles his hand over the bedside table where he’d hastily left his wand while Harry was undressing him last night. With a quick flick, the curtains part, allowing some of the muted sunlight to spill into the room, bathing Harry and himself in its cool glow. A _Tempus_ shows the time to be only half past six, so Draco buries himself deeper into the bed to catch a bit more sleep. Harry mumbles gruffly, his nude body warm against Draco’s cooler skin—he’d fallen asleep with his legs outside the duvet.

 

“Wh’time is it?” Harry murmurs into his neck, pressing a dry kiss to a love bite there.

 

“Early,” Draco responds. “Not even seven. Go back to sleep.”

 

“Mm,” Harry hums, shifting his head so that his unruly hair brushes against Draco’s nose. The snores start back up again just moments later.

 

Draco sleeps on and off for about an hour, pleasantly dipping between states of consciousness and dreams of rich, bronze skin. The bed dips at eight, and he hears the padding of Harry’s feet heading towards the ensuite. He realises then just how badly he needs the toilet, so he shifts to slip out of the comfortable bed as well. When he stands, his legs groan in dissent, the muscles aching from being bound for so long last night. There’s a definitive soreness in his arse as well, and as he hobbles into the ensuite to relieve himself, Harry laughs softly from where he is standing in front of the mirror, shaving with a Muggle razor.

 

“Gods,” says Harry as he washes his face and turns to look at Draco as the blond flushes the toilet, having finished his business, “you look incredible.”

 

Draco pads quickly over to the sink to wash his hands, catching his reflection in the mirror alongside Harry’s. The difference between the two is astounding; Draco’s usually flawless skin is marred with bruises and welts, broken blood vessels sparking up along his hips, chest, neck, and arms from Harry’s lips and teeth. His lips are cracked and bloody from biting at them, and he thinks that he looks the picture of submissive and debauched. Harry, despite his shorter height, looks massive compared to him, all bronze skin, wide shoulders, and strong arms. For once, he looks perfectly put-together, if you ignore the mess on top of his head which Draco adores but will never admit. His chest is smooth save for a sparse batch of dark hair and a white, jagged circular scar in the middle. Without thinking, Draco reaches up to touch it. Harry’s breath catches and he shuts his eyes, reaching up to envelop Draco’s hand in his. Draco moves to take his hand off, but Harry stops him.

 

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You can touch.”

 

“Are you sure?” Draco asks hesitantly, positive he’s just overstepped his Dom’s boundaries.

 

“Yes,” says Harry, opening his eyes to look at Draco soberly. “With you, I’m sure of everything.”

 

Draco inhales sharply then nods, tracing his finger over the ridges of the scar. Beneath his hand, Harry shivers, and Draco wonders just how close anyone else has ever been to him. Is he the first to touch Harry like this?

 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says then, truly meaning it. The things he’s apologising for go unspoken.

 

Harry smiles at him and lifts his chin with his finger, placing a gentle kiss onto Draco’s cracked lips. “I know.” They stand still for a few moments, Draco pushing his head against Harry’s neck as Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s body, humming contentedly. “You don’t need to be, though.”

 

“I know, but…” Draco smiles sadly and shrugs, stepping back. He looks into Harry’s green eyes, remembering the way they used to catch each other in corridors, over heads in the Great Hall, up in the air during competitive Quidditch matches where they would’ve happily knocked each other off their brooms. “I wonder what would have happened, back then, if we’d known.”

 

“Known that in a few year’s time I’d have you screaming my name with my cock buried deep in your arse?” Harry asks cheekily.

 

Draco gives him a playful shove, giggling. “Yeah. That.”

 

Harry hums in consideration for a few moments. “Probably would’ve hexed the shit out of each other. And not in a good way.”

 

“A good way?” Draco asks in disbelief.

 

Laughing again, Harry leans forward to land a peck on Draco’s forehead. “Oh, my lovely, you have _so_ much still to learn.”

 

Feeling his skin prickle in interest, Draco looks at Harry with curiosity. “Now?” he asks.

 

Harry shakes his head. “Not now, love. Your energy is still low, plus, I need to finish healing you; I can tell you’re still sore. Actually, I was going to suggest we make use of that tub.” He nods towards the massive bathtub that takes up the centre of the room, adorned with a glamorous chandelier above and bottles of luxurious Muggle soaps and washes arranged neatly in a little basket. “And then there’s somewhere I want to take you.”


	15. Chapter 15

Draco knows by now that Harry will never fail to surprise him. After a long soak in the tub with some expensive healing potions to mend his tender muscles and a charm to make it so that the water never goes cold, they share a hearty English breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant and head out onto London’s cold, damp streets. They dip into a private alley, and with a _crack,_ Disapparate away from Soho. To Draco’s confusion, they reappear amongst damp grass and a gaggle of geese, the clouds above them threatening to rain at any moment. Looking across the grass, Draco spots the sharp spire of All Saints’ Church striking into the air, and he turns to look at Harry curiously.

 

“Why have you brought me to Blackheath?” he asks, worry tainting his voice. Is their time together this weekend already over? Does Harry want to be left alone now?

 

Harry’s brows raise, and he immediately lands a kiss on Draco’s now-healed lips. “Don’t worry. There’s something I have to show you. It’s exciting, I promise. This way.”

 

He pulls Draco along towards the church and village, and to the blond’s relief, in the _opposite_ direction of Draco’s flat. Amongst them are tonnes of Muggles playing that weird sport with a soft, chequered ball and their feet. Draco briefly remembers one of the Foster twins—Olive, he’s pretty sure—telling him something about it, and he recalls that it had a stupidly obvious name, like kickball, or something similar to that.

 

Harry leads them through the marshy grass, and Draco grumbles at the mud staining his trousers and shoes; he _never_ goes out onto the heath in winter without proper weather charms placed over his clothes. Eventually, they reach the pavement and turn down a few quiet streets, eventually passing through a little gate and stopping outside a row of large Georgian detached houses. Harry points up at a white one with a bright red door, then turns to Draco to speak to him directly. “I just bought that house,” he says.

 

Draco suddenly looks up from where he was trying to _Scourgify_ his trousers and blinks once, twice, then turns to Harry with his jaw wide open. “Erm,” he says dumbly, for once the less composed of the two. “What?”

 

“I can pick up the keys from the estate agent next Wednesday,” Harry says simply with a little shrug, as if he’s just told Draco he prefers his eggs scrambled instead of fried.

 

“You… wh… why?” Draco asks, flabbergasted.

 

“Let me be the first to welcome you to Britain’s first magical integration community centre,” Harry replies, throwing his hands out dramatically as if in a _Daily Prophet_ advert.

 

Realisation dawns on Draco’s face. “Harry,” he gasps, stepping forward and looking around, taking the exterior of the house in properly, its crumbling white stucco and large sash windows; he can just imagine what it’s like on the inside, the bones of it which he knows can be turned into something beautiful. “It’s perfect.”

 

“There are five bedrooms on the first and second floors, which we’ll turn into counselling offices as well as one sort of hostel-style room for any witch or wizard who needs it, kind of like the Knight Bus. The three receptions on the ground floor will be turned into classrooms, and the lower ground floor will be a place for socialising and public events. There’s also an attached coach house, which Hermione thinks we should start as a day care, though I’m not sure how that would go about; I think she’s just said that because she wants a baby soon. Anyway, there’s a swimming pool and a huge garden, which we’ve already tested can be expanded using magic, so good for Quidditch lessons for children.” He turns to Draco with a huge smile on his face. “Of course, we want you to be the one to do the re-design. It shouldn’t need as much as Grimmauld Place but the inside is quite dirty and dated and some things are falling apart so—”

 

Draco interrupts Harry then, mashing their lips together in a violent kiss. Harry jumps in surprise but then quickly takes control, cupping Draco’s jaw and moving their mouths together in a slow, intimate dance, with Harry’s lips leading the way. At some point, Harry throws up a subtle Notice-Me-Not charm, which is good because just as Harry moves to grab Draco’s arse, a young couple and their two children come sauntering by, paying no mind to the two wizards as they snog and grope in the middle of the pavement.

 

“Good one,” Draco whispers, stepping back. He’s completely short of breath. Harry is looking at him with hearts in his eyes, and Draco’s not sure what he wants more: to continue kissing here on the pavement or to go back to the hotel and have another round of intense fucking or maybe even to go back to Grimmauld Place and sit in the half-finished kitchen drinking tea whilst Kreacher cooks them who-knows-what and sings camp-y seventies Swedish pop music. Anything with Harry, he decides, is what he wants. “I…” he starts, not sure if he can finish. He bites his lip and looks down at his muddy shoes and trousers, wondering how taking one bloody job has brought him _here,_ kissing Harry Potter and trying to tell him he loves him without coming across as a completely changed man. He throws caution to the wind and looks up again, meeting Harry’s bright green gaze. He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, then says it. “I love you.”

 

“Draco….”

 

“No,” he says, pressing a finger to Harry’s parted lips. “Let me have my sappy Hufflepuff moment. They don’t happen very often, so you’d better appreciate it.”

 

Harry laughs, the kind Draco utterly adores—when he throws back his head and lets out a rough chuckle, his eyes dancing and hair wild atop his head.

 

“I love you,” Draco continues, “and I know our relationship isn’t strictly conventional. We’ve been on separate pages for most of our lives, and when I started the work on Grimmauld Place, I was appalled when I found out what you get up to. Even once I came around to the concept, we seemed to have different ideas of what that relationship would entail. I just wanted to say… I’m glad you took me on that ridiculous totally-not-a-date-but-actually-a-date and ordered me that weird food and—”

 

“You loved it,” Harry interrupts.

 

Laughing, Draco nods. “I did.” He leans into Harry’s chest, feeling his steady heartbeat thrumming from beneath his charcoal grey jumper. “I’m just… so grateful for you. Thank you, for everything.”

 

“I haven’t even done anything.” Harry brushes his fingers over Draco’s cheeks and leans in to steal a quick kiss. “I love you too, though. I hope you know that. I hope I’ve made it clear.”

 

His heart doing a sharp leap, Draco reddens. “You’ve more than made that clear. You’ve been so good to me, Harry. You’ve done so much for me, even outside of sex. I want to do this for you, to help make this dream of yours come true.” His voice softens, even though he knows there’s no one around to hear him. “You’ve made me feel so good.” He pauses and bites his lip, a sudden realisation hitting him. He’s yet to do things to really please Harry. Sure, they’ve fucked and Harry’s moans during release have managed to break their way through the hazy cloud in Draco’s mind, but the moment to really satisfy his Master has yet to arise. He hasn’t felt the heavy weight of Harry on his tongue yet, nor does he know how to do the things that make Harry teeter between the edges of control and chaos. “How can I make sure that I’m making _you_ feel that good?” he asks.

 

“Oh, my Draco,” Harry says quietly, looking him straight in the eyes. “You’ve already made me feel _incredible._ It’s so bloody hard to keep my composure around you; you’re _exquisite._ The closest to perfect I could ever ask for.”

 

Well, that won’t do. Draco matches Harry’s stare, and chooses his next words very carefully, measuring them out in his head a few times before he finally says them aloud. “But I want to be perfect. Teach me how to be perfect, _Master.”_


	16. Chapter 16

Probably the easiest part of falling into a BDSM relationship with Harry Potter is that the man is quite possibly, in Draco’s eyes, the sexiest person to ever walk the bloody planet. He walks and talks with a raw, unique comfort and confidence that Draco could only dream of having. Even after being raised his whole childhood to be a perfect and proper pure-blood, Draco’s confidence has always felt stilted and played, whereas for Harry, it all seems so natural. Draco thrives beneath Harry’s dominant aura, a type of control he’s never had in his life before, and it helps to increase his own confidence. Over the next few weeks of adjusting to life in a sexual relationship with Harry, Draco frequently finds himself more convinced that he’s made all the right decisions, that this was _somehow_ meant to be—Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, two parts of one whole.

 

Which is why, as Harry roughly pushes him down onto the course carpet in Draco’s bedroom after a nice dinner out in West London, Draco doesn’t feel any of the shame and disgrace he thought he would feel upon being treated so… well, like a _sub._ But being treated like a sub is different; it’s not like he’s some sort of pet, there for Harry to push around and hit and fuck whenever he wants. In those precious moments where the mess of the world around them and the half-done wallpaper and bathrooms disappear, leaving just their bodies entangled together on a messily made bed, Harry _does_ treat him ruthlessly, with strength and dominance and force—but _Circe_ it feels so, _so_ right. Being submissive, Draco has found, isn’t an antithesis to being respected. In it, he has found assurance. Draco feels confident, sexy, and most of all, valued. Without him, this all means nothing.

 

They’re still dressed from dinner, barely making it inside the flat before they begin enthusiastically snogging. To the right of Harry is Draco’s bedroom window, looking out onto the back patio covered in a light dusting of snow, illuminated only by the single, warm porch light. He shuts his eyes and he leans forward, guided by Harry’s hands tangled in his hair as he slowly presses his nose and lips into Harry’s clothed crotch.

 

“Oh, that’s wonderful, baby,” Harry encourages, pulling lightly at the blond strands of Draco’s hair and pressing his body weight back against the bedroom wall.

 

Draco hums, letting his lips fall just slightly open to suckle at the denim stretching over Harry’s steadily growing erection. Harry lets out a soft moan, sending a shiver down Draco’s spine at the realisation that _he’s_ made those noises come out of his Master. Oh, how _delightful_ they are.

 

He can still get hints of Harry’s cologne when he inhales deeply through his nose, but more than anything, he smells Harry’s arousal. The scent is strong, nearly overpowering, but Draco doesn’t mind; if anything, he wants more of it. It’s sexy and masculine and belongs to the man he _loves._ Above him, Harry clenches his eyes shut, letting Draco’s name fall from his lips in the midst of encouragements and praise.

 

He makes a show of teasing Harry’s bulge for a few more minutes, running along the seam of his denim jeans with his tongue, never quite enough friction for Harry to grind upwards. Before reaching up to pull the trousers’ zipper down, he looks up at Harry for approval. “Am I doing well, Sir?”

 

From behind Harry’s fogging glasses, his eyes roll up in pleasure. “Absolutely, baby,” he says breathlessly. “I love what you do to my cock.”

 

Flushing, Draco continues, “I love your cock, Sir. I can’t wait to suck it. I want to be so good for you.”

 

At Harry’s approving groan, he teases the zipper down, cupping the denim beneath Harry’s dick which is still covered by his dark green boxer-briefs. Draco wants to curse the bloody things for getting in the way between him and his prize. He pouts moodily, and Harry lets out a low chuckle. “You have to be patient, darling,” he says with a coaxing scratch of his fingers over Draco’s scalp.

 

“I want it now,” Draco whines in reply, darting his tongue out to lick the straining fabric.

 

“Go slower,” Harry instructs, but not without a little grunt at the contact of Draco’s tongue. “It will pay off in the end.”

 

Keen to make this as best as possible for Harry, Draco obliges and returns to just rubbing his face against Harry’s crotch. Every time he drags his nose across the tip of Harry’s penis, Harry’s groans become just a little bit louder, gruffer, and the grip on Draco’s hair becomes just a little bit tighter.

 

“That’s it, beautiful,” Harry encourages, his voice raspy. His hands wander down from Draco’s hair and onto his cheeks, pulling him up and away from his crotch. “C’mere.”

 

They meet in a slow, tender kiss—at least, it’s tender for them. There’s still an edge, a few hard sucks and nips to Draco’s lips, as well as the occasional _clack_ of teeth hitting each other. The kiss is intimate, loving, but still so hot and sparked; it is the perfect image to replicate the balance and diversity of their personalities.

 

“Grab my cock,” whispers Harry, suddenly.

 

Draco’s response time is immediate, his hand grasping Harry’s dick almost before he even finishes his sentence. Harry lets out a loud moan as he tries to mimic the movements he does to himself in this very room when he’s not with Harry. Having another cock in his hand other than his own feels so good, and once again, Draco scorns Harry’s pants.

 

“Nice and slow,” says Harry. Draco gives Harry’s cock a few squeezes, relinquishing the heat and heaviness of it. “That’s it.”

 

Harry covers Draco’s hand with his then, and Draco looks up in confusion. When Harry pushes him roughly down to his knees, though, the point comes across. Finding a comfortable stance—Harry’s put down a cushioning charm, he notices—Draco begins to mouth at Harry’s cock through his pants again as Harry’s hands return to his scalp, scratching pleasantly across it.

 

“You can take it out, now.”

 

Draco’s hands reach up greedily to pull at Harry’s pants.

 

“Come on, Draco,” Harry groans. “Suck my cock, baby.”

 

As the elastic on Harry’s pants snaps back into place beneath his bollocks, Draco feels his mouth begin to water at the sight that greets him. He’s seen Harry’s thick cock quite a few times by now, but this is the first time he’s been able to really cherish it and give it the attention it deserves. He wants to do this right, to give Harry even just a sliver of the slow, pleasing torture he’s been gifted with in their relationship so far. He starts with the head which is peeking just out from Harry’s dark foreskin, just inviting Draco’s lips to it. With a quick lick across his mouth, Draco begins to just barely suckle at Harry’s cock head.

 

“Yes,” Harry lets out, his nails scraping his neck just slightly. “You look so perfect with my cock in your pretty, pink mouth. Do you like that?”

 

Draco hums an agreement, being sure not to take his mouth off of Harry’s dick. The vibrations must travel upwards, because Harry begins a slow thrust against Draco’s lips after that. Opening his mouth just a little bit wider to accommodate Harry’s movements, Draco feels the slide of his length entering his mouth more and more. He uses his tongue to trace along it, making little licks along its curve. The weight of Harry in his mouth is something he won’t be able to ever forget, how his lips wrap around his length so perfectly, as if to say they were _designed_ for having Harry Potter’s cock between them and teasing them open with spit-slicked skin.

 

As Draco continues to suck Harry’s cock, he gives the occasional effort to take as much of Harry as he can. The first time, the tip of Harry’s penis bumps the back of Draco’s throat, and he has to splutter, cough, and remove himself. Between the tip of Harry’s cock and Draco’s lips is a thin line of spit and pre-come. He’s about to wipe it away, but Harry is too quick, taking his thumb and swirling it against Draco’s swollen lips. Draco moans around Harry’s thumb as he slips it in, his tongue dancing around the knuckle and giving another little moan as his eyes meet Harry’s piercing green ones.

 

In front of him Harry’s cock is still straining, hard and ready. Letting Harry’s thumb drop from his mouth, Draco reaches up to guide his hand back into his hair as he latches his mouth back onto the head of Harry’s cock, hollowing his cheeks and giving a hard, wet suck.

 

“Oh _fuck,_ baby,” Harry groans roughly, hitting his head with a solid _thump_ against the wall as he pulls at Draco’s hair and bucks his hips. Draco makes sure his jaw is relaxed this time, Harry’s cock reaching far to the back of his throat. When Draco increases the pressure, Harry’s bucks get faster, rougher.

 

If he weren’t so distracted by the beautiful noises coming from his boyfriend, he would’ve laughed at the image—Draco Malfoy, on his knees in front of Harry Potter, sucking the daylights out of his dick. Oh, it’s a blessing that his father is long dead; the things Lucius Malfoy would say if he knew…. They’re too vulgar to even think. But, as he sucks down Harry’s cock, buries his nose in his dark curls, and grasps at his dark hand for a point of security, Draco thinks to himself that this is exactly where he needs to be.

 

“Uh, uh, uh.” Harry’s thrusts continue to be accompanied by filthy grunts, almost animalistic in nature. Draco adjusts his own movements in order to accommodate for all of Harry’s actions, alternating between deep sucks and little licks. He makes sure to keep his eyes open as he watches his Dom come undone above him. Harry lets out a shout and swears beneath his breath, and Draco feels the other wizard’s cock swell suddenly on his tongue. “I’m gonna come, baby,” Harry whispers gruffly.

 

Draco hollows his cheeks once more, sucking slowly as it happens. All of Harry’s attention seems to be focused on Draco as he freezes in one position, a single low grunt resonating from somewhere deep in his chest. Draco puts all his focus into the head of Harry’s cock as Harry spurts warm, bitter come down his throat. He swallows most of Harry’s come, although some of it does ends up on his lips and around his mouth—its taste is bitter and salty but not as unpleasant as he had expected. As ricochets of pleasure zip down Harry’s body, Draco continues the suckling motion he started with back when Harry was still fully clothed, a teasing and almost tender touch of his lips to Harry’s sensitive glans as he shivers through the aftershocks of his orgasm.

 

Harry’s legs nearly give out as he reaches out to pull Draco up against him, his softening cock sticking out from his pants and trousers between them. Draco’s lips feel swollen and there’s an ache in his jaw, but he couldn’t feel any better about himself as Harry peppers him with soft kisses and praise.

 

“You were so good to me, baby,” Harry whispers, his voice a sign of how much energy Draco’s blowjob took from him. His chest is heaving as they meet together for a slow, wet snog. Draco moans when Harry’s tongue enters his mouth, licking along his own with slick, dirty motions. Draco is hard—has been since he began sucking Harry off—but is too engrossed with the attention that Harry is lavishing him with to focus too much consideration to his dick.

 

“Loved that so much, Sir,” he says airily, really not paying too much attention to what Harry has begun to do with his hands. “I love your cock.”

 

“If I hadn’t known any better,” Harry starts, “then I would’ve guessed you’d done that before.” He winks. His voice is back to full power now, sending a shiver down Draco’s spine.

 

Draco blushes and wants to turn away, but Harry’s hands around his back keep him from moving, instead pinning his groin to Harry’s.

 

“What did you do, Draco?” Harry asks, raising one dark eyebrow expectantly.

 

“I…” Draco starts. “Ehm, I may have practised before.”  

 

He thinks back to the week before when an inconspicuous parcel had come held in the talons of a great grey owl just a few minutes after he’d arrived home from work. Once he’d shooed the owl off with what was in his opinion _far_ too many treats, he’d opened the parcel to reveal a dark silicone dildo, its size _identical_ to Harry’s in terms of both length and width.

 

“Did you use my gift?” Harry questions, raising his thumb to trace Draco’s lower lip.

 

Draco just nods, mesmerised.

 

“Good boy.” The sudden touch of a hand covering his erection is like a zap of lightning, moving him back into action. He lets out a whine as his hips buck into the contact, seeking more. “Now,” says Harry gruffly, “let’s get that pretty cock out, shall we?”

 

“Ngh, _Harry,”_ Draco says with a whisper when Harry’s fingers venture to play with the zipper on his trousers. His cock is straining uncomfortably against the soft wool, just waiting for Harry to put his hands on him.

 

When Harry pops the zipper down, he makes a noise of intense interest. “No pants?” he asks. Draco just nods, biting his lip and letting out a moan when Harry’s thumb comes to brush the sensitive head of his cock. Harry grins excitedly. “That’s so hot, Draco. Tell me what it was like to have my cock in your mouth.”

 

Harry’s hand wraps around Draco’s cock, and Draco can’t help but to let out a deep, guttural whine. “It felt so good, Harry,” he says. “It was so big and thick. Love to please you.”

 

“Yeah?” Harry starts a quick motion with his hand, drawing Draco’s foreskin up and down with each stroke. “You like having your Master’s cock in that pretty little mouth of yours?”

 

“Yes!” Draco exclaims as a tease of pleasure sparks through him. “Please, Sir, more.”

 

While Harry’s right hand continues to wank him, his left hand comes up to force his fingers between Draco’s lips. “Suck,” Harry commands roughly.

 

Draco does so, taking Harry’s pointer, middle, and ring fingers into his mouth. He dances his tongue around the digits, tracing all the little grooves and calluses along them. Harry has the hands of a man who’s been through things no one should; they’re littered with scars from the War and its accompaniments, most notably, the messy tissue on the back of his right hand that reads _‘I must not tell lies.’_ Now, Draco watches as the scars twist and turn while Harry pumps his cock in a slow, delicious rhythm, the words obscured by the thick veins protruding down his arm and onto his hand. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, but gods, it really is enticing. His Harry, his wonderful, amazing Harry who makes Draco feel _so_ good, is really something else.

 

“Face the wall, darling,” says Harry then, removing his spit-slicked fingers from between Draco’s lips. Draco does as commanded, turning around and putting his arms out to secure himself. He puts his head down, eyeing his hard cock where it juts out from Harry’s fist, bright red with arousal. And then, Harry does something Draco never would’ve expected from his Dom; he gets down on his knees behind Draco, eye-level with his arse.

 

“Harry, what are you—”

 

But then he’s cut off by a hard _smack_ across his arse cheeks. He lets out a howl, his whole body jerking against the wall. “Touch yourself,” Harry orders.

 

He doesn’t need to ask twice; as soon as Harry lets go of his cock, Draco’s hand is there to replace it almost immediately. He widens his stance, now understanding what it is that Harry is going to do to him. He takes up a slow rhythm, pulling at his cock as Harry mumbles encouragements from behind him. The pressure of a slick finger at his entrance is welcome, along with Harry’s other hand spreading his arse cheeks.

 

“Hnn, that feels so good, Harry,” Draco whines as Harry teases his fingers around his rim.

 

“It’s about to feel a lot better, baby.”

 

He hears it first, the delicious sound of Harry’s mouth wetting itself amongst their heavy breathing. Then, the obscene noise of someone spitting, except it’s _Harry’s_ spit, and it’s dribbling down his crack and it feels so good that Draco lets out a shocked cry. “Oh, fucking _Salazar,”_ he swears as Harry’s fingers trail the spit up and down between his cheeks, barely just teasing the quivering ring of muscle at his entrance.

 

“Not quite,” Harry responds cheekily. “It’s actually just Harry…. Though I used to be able to talk to snakes.”

 

“I don’t care,” Draco grunts. “Just... fucking fuck me, Harry.”

 

That earns Draco a sharp _whack_ across his bum again, the sound reverberating through the room and causing tears to gather at the corners of his eyes. “Shh,” Harry whispers, though his voice is muffled by Draco’s hot, damp skin. “Be a good boy, and you’ll get your reward.”

 

Obediently, Draco seals his mouth shut, though he still can’t help the suppressed whines that resonate from him when Harry’s fingers pick up their tempo again, sliding across his arsehole. He knows what’s going to happen next, and he’s aching for it; Harry will summon a bottle of lube, finger him until he’s screaming, then bugger him senseless for ages until he finally, _finally_ lets him come. But, once again, his partner gives him the surprise of his life.

 

His brain goes fuzzy when the tip of Harry’s tongue breaches him for the first time, a point of pressure so wet and so hot that surely, _surely_ it’s wrong! But also, it can’t be wrong, because it feels so good, like his whole world has just been shifted on its axis to the point where Harry, _just Harry,_ is the focal point of it all. His lips are sealed firmly over Draco’s arsehole as his tongue starts to plunge in with quick, rough licks. Draco doesn’t even have the capacity to think about how wrecked he must look, with his trousers pulled down just below his bum and Harry licking him open.

 

The wetness disappears for a few seconds, replaced by two of Harry’s strong fingers. “I fucking love your arse,” says Harry. “Every time I see it I get so hard. I want it for every meal of the day. Want you so bad, Draco.”

 

Draco moans, wanting that as well. Hell, Harry can eat his arse every hour of every day for the rest of his life as far as he’s concerned—if only he didn’t have a bloody job.

 

Harry is just as good at eating Draco’s arse as he is everything else in the bedroom, because it only takes a couple of pleasure-filled minutes for Draco to feel his orgasm start to rise from within his core. It shocks him, the intensity of having his arse stretched wide open by Harry’s tongue whilst he continues to give his cock short, quick tugs. “Oh, _Harry,”_ he moans as Harry’s fingers return to his arsehole, slipping in alongside his tongue. From this angle, it just takes one curl of his fingers for Harry to hit his prostate. The moment he does, Draco loses control, bucking manically into his own hand whilst simultaneously clenching back around Harry’s tongue and fingers as he comes hard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants as Harry continues to suck through his orgasm, relentless with his mouth. “Fuck! Oh, fuck, Harry.” His cry ends on a high-pitched whine as a second, dry orgasm shakes him just seconds later. Harry pulls his fingers and tongue away, leaving Draco empty and gasping, and stands up.

 

“Fuck, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers into Draco’s ear before turning the blond around to crowd him against the wall. And then, he mashes their mouths together in a rough, biting kiss. Their tongues meet, a combination of Harry’s seed from earlier and now Draco’s arse mingling amongst their saliva. It’s the dirtiest thing Draco’s ever done, but he can’t help but find it absolutely addicting, knowing that their kisses contain some trace of their most intimate areas.

 

Draco shudders and falls into Harry’s grasp, his legs shaky from his orgasm. His softening cock twitches, a twinge of sensation running down Draco’s arms as it does so. “I think I’m dead,” he mumbles into Harry’s shoulder.

 

Harry chuckles—the kind that makes his whole body shake—and presses a soft kiss to Draco’s forehead. “You’re very much alive, darling.”

 

“I’m not so sure I am.”

 

His eyes are falling heavy, and he thinks for a second he may nod off here, standing up against the wall with all the lights still on and nearly completely dressed. However, as he shifts and yawns, he feels the press of Harry’s erection against his thigh.

 

“Harry,” he says softly.

 

“Mm?”

 

“You’re hard again.”

 

“I am,” responds Harry with very little hint of emotion to his voice save for just a trace of mischievousness. There’s a pregnant pause, in which Draco catches his breath and waits, and waits, and waits…. Then, finally, “are you going to do something about it?”

 

“Merlin, _yes.”_


	17. Chapter 17

Draco and Harry quickly decide that priority on Grimmauld Place goes to the master suite, and by the following Wednesday afternoon when Harry pops out to pick up the keys for the new place in Blackheath, the rooms are complete. Harry’s idea of celebrating that evening is to tie Draco up against the ensuite door and tease him for an hour and a half with a charmed butt plug, before finally throwing him onto the freshly-made bed with its brand new expensive linens and fucking him through not one, not two, but _three_ orgasms, with Draco coming untouched the last time. They make good use of the beautiful new ensuite afterwards, Harry carrying him to the extravagant tub and whispering reassuring and praising words as Draco comes back to himself.

 

In the days leading up to Christmas, they fuck in each room upon its completion; Draco especially enjoys an evening in which he’s spread out and bound over the mahogany dining table, facing the windows. Due to the Fidelius Charm placed over the entire house, he and Harry can both see out onto the street, but no one can see in. As Harry smacks him hard across the arse with a whip and pulls roughly at his hair, Draco just barely makes out through blurred vision a group of Muggles walking along the quiet street outside, pointing to the Christmas decorations of Harry’s neighbours and completely oblivious to the utter debauchery the two wizards are committing on the dining table in the invisible house in front of them.

 

Draco takes a Portkey to his mother’s villa in South France for Christmas. Harry takes special care the night before to heal the marks and bruises that encompass Draco’s neck and body, though he leaves one mark on his hip which is hidden by his swimming costume so that Draco can touch it while he’s away and remember who it is that he belongs to. They exchange dirty Floo calls in the middle of the night in Draco’s private rooms at the villa, when the crowd of Weasleys at the Burrow are asleep and Harry’s able to cast strong privacy charms. And if Narcissa notices Draco’s wild and exhausted look the next morning at breakfast—he only got two hours of sleep the night before, and those two hours were often interrupted by the charmed pants Harry had asked him to wear, for Salazar’s sake!—she certainly doesn’t say anything, just sips her Earl Grey and mentions to Draco how healthy and happy he looks.

 

When Harry comes home to Grimmauld Place on the twenty-eighth of December, to his delight it is to find Draco gagged, bound, and suspended in the doorframe between Harry’s bedroom and ensuite. Afterwards, once Harry has held him close through his trembles and told him how wonderful he is, how much he has pleased him, Draco reveals he’d found the self-suspension spell in an old wizard’s bondage guide when he was browsing through Pansy’s erotic library, and he decided to learn it as his first Christmas gift to Harry. They perfect it over the following couple of days, and bring in the year 2005 in a private top-floor flat that Harry’s rented near the top of Primrose Hill, which overlooks the fireworks bursting across the Thames as Big Ben chimes through Westminster. Welcoming a New Year with Harry’s thick cock buried in his arse is much more preferable than the luxurious parties, petite hors d'oeuvres, expensive champagne, and moderately-racist political talk he’s used to.

 

 

It’s a week into the New Year when Draco stands outside number twelve, Grimmauld Place much like he did on that first day only a few months before and looks up at a beautiful home—it really is a shame how few can actually see it. This time, the terraced house outshines its neighbours; the once-worn front door has a fresh coat of black paint and a minimum of five weather-protecting charms cast over it. The bricks and stucco have seen too many _Scourgifys_ to count, and the cast-iron fencing and balconies once again shine in the muted London light, accented with symmetrical hanging shrubbery and clean windows. Inside, it’s bright and airy but still holding its traditional charm and cosiness through Draco’s brilliant repurposing of the old furniture and use of original materials. Each room has its own designated purpose now, rather than being stuffed with clutter and tat that Harry hadn’t bothered to sort through when he’d moved in six and a half years before. The ground and first floors now have a formal living room, a formal dining room, a study, and a library, and the second and third floors have three spare bedrooms divided between them, along with Harry’s godson’s room for when he visits, and a special room for Kreacher which Draco had seen to finishing all by himself. The house-elf’s room is complete with his own personal Wireless equipped to play the Muggle albums Harry had gotten him for Christmas—the elf had been overjoyed at the sentiment, promising them both as much truffle and treacle tart as they could possibly consume.

 

As proud of Draco is of the loft and how it’s sort of a miniature retreat with its assortment of games and activities—wizarding _and_ Muggle—his favourite part of the house is far and above Harry’s master suite, and more importantly, all the things they get up to in that suite. Each evening, when Pucey, Goldstein, and the Fosters leave, they work on adding some sort of fetish element to the rooms, whether that’s charming suspension hooks above the archway to only appear when prompted or installing a variety of magical harnesses that turn a seemingly ordinary bergère chair into the ultimate bondage device. By its completion, it’s the ultimate space where Harry can teach Draco everything he needs to know about their bodies and what they can get up to in this new, exhilarating world of BDSM.

 

And _Merlin,_ Harry has taught him a lot. Draco has never felt so close and personal to his own body, so in control of nearly every situation. After their first scene, Draco had thought he was invincible, that nothing could push him to any type of limit, and this continues in the weeks following Grimmauld Place’s completion; Harry wrecks him, takes his body and mind apart piece by piece and doesn’t put it back together until after hours of impact play and humiliation and teasing when Draco is _finally_ allowed an orgasm. Harry makes him utterly debauched, and he _loves_ it. _Nothing is too much,_ he tells himself.

 

It’s a crisp February day when he’s proven wrong.

 

“I’ve really enjoyed it before,” Harry says as he explains what he wants to do, letting his hand rub smooth circles into Draco’s hip.

 

Draco eyes the inconspicuous grey bag, tied neatly with a dark purple ribbon and laid atop the deep red duvet he’s buried beneath in Harry’s bed in Grimmauld Place, trying to keep warm on the chilly Saturday whilst Harry has been away at the shops. “Are they just regular candles?” Draco asks curiously, already interested. He reaches for the bag, carefully untying it and setting aside the tissue paper the candles are wrapped in.

 

Harry shakes his head. “No, they’re designed specifically for wax play. They’re made of soy, so there's less chance of permanent trauma to the skin. They also melt at a lower temperature.”

 

“Okay,” Draco says, nodding and already beginning to feel a hint of arousal stirring in his groin. He brushes his finger against the candles. “It sounds wonderful.”

  
The gleeful smile that Harry gives him should look ridiculous on a twenty-four-year-old man currently discussing a new kink he wants to try, but instead it just makes him even sexier to Draco. Gods, he bloody loves him.

 

“Tonight?” Draco asks hopefully.

 

Harry presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. “If you like. As long as you’re not too exhausted tomorrow for work.”

 

Draco gives him a cheeky grin. “I’m my own boss, I can do what I like.”

 

“Oh, can you?” Harry challenges, moving his hands down beneath the duvet and giving Draco’s bum a little pinch. It’s nothing painful or heated, but it sends a spark running down Draco’s spine regardless as Harry’s green eyes take on a more dominant look. “I thought _I_ was in charge here.”

 

“You are,” Draco responds, a bit breathlessly.

 

Harry leans over him, domineering and assertive. “What’s that?”

 

“You are,” Draco repeats, louder.

 

Harry smiles, and presses a kiss to his lips. “You’ve got that right, my darling.”

 

Within the next half hour, Draco is naked and lying beside Harry on the bed, watching with intense eyes as the other wizard tests a few heating spells on the candles. Even without impact or restraint, Draco is unbelievably aroused from their foreplay so far, which has consisted mostly of Harry just teasing Draco’s cock and nipples with light touches. It just reaffirms his assurance that he and Harry are perfect for each other, that even without the severity and depth of their kinkier sessions, Harry still has the ability to drive him positively mad.

 

He looks on with an intense gaze as Harry taps a deep red candle with the tip of his wand, igniting the wick at the end. It flickers in the cool winter breeze coming in from the open window, its warm glow being the only source of light in the dark room. Draco’s skin raises in the cold, and he takes deep breaths as he waits anxiously and excitedly for the hot wax to drip onto him.

 

Harry touches him lovingly on his thigh, and Draco’s throat tightens as his thumb brushes just centimetres away from his hard cock. “My beautiful boy,” Harry whispers gruffly. “You’re so gorgeous, always so good for me.” He reaches forward to run his fingers through Draco’s blond hair, his touch gentle and admiring. “Are you ready, my love?”

 

Draco lets out an appreciative whine at his Master’s touch. “Yes, Harry.”

 

With a chaste kiss pressed to his shoulder, Harry reaches to the bedside table and grasps the candle with his hand. Draco watches with mesmerised eyes at the pool of dark wax that has formed at the top of the candle; it threatens to run over with just the slightest movement.

 

In the same way the flame has slowly melted the wax of the candle, the things that happen next seem to transpire as if they’re being slowly drawn across the floor by a string, bit by bit, gradual yet persistent and unstoppable. Draco’s breath catches as the first drop of wax runs down the candle, falling from the stick and towards his chest like feathers float in the cool, dark air of the Owlery back at Hogwarts—back and forth, back and forth. It’s mesmerising and addicting and it’s going to touch him at any moment. And then, time snaps back to the very instant, quick and urgent and he’s suddenly a scared, sixteen-year-old boy again, having his skin be marked by searing, excruciating dark magic.

 

Pain and sensation are not one in the same, but the mental weight of that burning contact can only compare to one other moment of Draco’s life, and it comes at him full-throttle, ripping him from the throes of pleasure and putting him instead into a state of consternation. His vision goes tunnelled as a long-forgotten panic sets in and he begins to hyperventilate, the small drops of wax burning a hole in his skin and melting him down to his core. _Merlin,_ this was not supposed to happen.

 

His head is a frenzied mess as he forgets where he is and who he’s with. _Morsemordre, Morsemordre, Morsemordre._ Nearly forgotten chants from the War come flooding back, echoing in his mind as he tries to fight the panic away and rid his skin of the horrible burning. His fingers automatically go to the mark on his arm. They clutch at the skin with a skeletal grip, the urge to rip it away from his bone overcoming all other thoughts. He stares down his chest at the red wax collecting on his stomach, its colour somehow exploding on his skin. Red, like blood and flesh and everything he never wanted to see. Hot, burning, red flesh. Everything has become red. _Red._

 

“Red,” Draco manages to gasp out.

 

And then, just as quickly as it began, it ends.

 

Draco blinks, and looks up into green eyes. Harry is sat on the bed next to him, wand in hand and candlestick nowhere to be found. His chest is heaving, his eyes frenzied, and he looks like all he wants to do is to touch Draco. His hands, however, stay away.

 

“Fuck,” Draco whispers, shutting his eyes as tears begin to gather. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“My love,” Harry responds, his hand reaching forward but still not touching.

 

Draco grabs Harry’s hand, squeezing it tightly as the reality of what’s just happened becomes clear to him. “You can touch. Salazar, I’m so sorry, Harry.”

 

Harry’s body immediately surrounds him from every angle. The weight of the other man is a reassuring pressure on Draco, his skin warm and soft rather than red and sharp like the wax. Draco takes steadying breaths. _“I’m_ so sorry. That was such a stupid idea,” Harry begins. “I should’ve known. I should have thought about it further.”

 

Draco holds on tightly to Harry, tears dripping across his cheeks. The brief flashback has subsided—it must have lasted just seconds, and was minute compared to the incidents he had following the War. Still, it’s shaken him, and all he wants is to stay pressed against his partner. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “You couldn’t have known, Harry. It’s okay, it was just a couple of seconds. I’m okay, now.”

 

It’s hard to tell which of them is more shaken up; Draco is still fighting images of tortured Muggles and the look of guilt on Harry’s face when he pulls away is crushing. It’s the first time Draco has had to use his safeword, and alongside the worry that just a bit of wax had that effect on him is the anxiety that Harry didn’t get what he wanted.

 

“I’m sorry that I ruined the scene,” says Draco.

 

“No,” Harry replies, immediately. He cups Draco’s jaw gently and moves his head so that they’re looking each other in the eyes. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, love. I’m so… I’m so glad you used your safeword. Gods, can you imagine if you hadn’t? I wouldn’t have known, Draco—it was just a few seconds, but you did look quite similar to how you do during sex.”

 

Draco blinks, then nods. “I guess I’m more vulnerable than I thought.”

 

“Everyone has limits,” Harry says, “even those who we might think don’t.”

 

“Even a man like you?”

 

A sobering look comes across Harry’s face, and in that moment, the last few years seem to drop away. “Draco,” says Harry softly, “do you really think I’m invincible?”

 

“I mean, you’re Harry Potter.” Draco leans his head on Harry’s shoulder and squeezes his hand tightly. “You killed the Dark Lord with a bloody _Expelliarmus,_ you fucking idiot. I’m pretty sure you can handle just about anything that gets thrown at you.”

 

Harry doesn’t say anything to that. He brushes his thumb up and down Draco’s hand for a few moments and plays with a tassel on one of the new decorative cushions. Despite what’s just happened, Draco is enjoying this moment; he feels he’s calmed down, that he’s safe and will be able to move on from this incident without much of an issue. However, there is one thing….

 

“I think,” says Draco, “that maybe we should make some amendments to our boundaries.”

 

“I think that we have our mind on the same thing,” Harry replies with a serious nod.

 

Eyeing Harry’s wardrobe from where it stands on the opposite side of the room, surrounded on either side by comfortable leather armchairs, Draco lets out a small, disappointed sigh.

 

“Hey,” says Harry, “it’s okay. We’ve done so many incredible things, and we’ve still got so much more to try. We don’t need wax or knives or anything that reminds you of things in the past to enjoy ourselves and feel good.”

 

“I know.”

 

Harry watches him with pursed lips for a while, then frowns. “You still want to try it, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

 

Draco nods, though he’s hesitant to tell Harry how much he still wants to experience it. The thought of it has aroused him from the very beginning, before he’d even been in Harry’s bed. He trusts Harry, more than anyone else.

 

“I don’t,” says Harry, choking up a little. He sounds hurt, frustrated. And then Draco realises; he hadn’t thought before how _Harry_ might feel about it. After all, it was Harry who hit him with that curse all those years ago in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. “Even though I know I wouldn’t draw blood,” Harry continues, “even the thought of seeing you bleeding from me ever again makes me feel sick. I’m sorry, Draco, that I can’t give you what you want. I could do it with my old subs but I just… I can’t… I can’t bring myself to put a knife to your skin.”

 

“Harry,” says Draco, “it’s okay.” He places a soothing hand to Harry’s thigh, rubbing up and down. “It’s what you said; we don’t have to do anything that doesn’t work for us. So let’s just… forget about it, yeah?”

 

“Okay,” Harry sighs. “Are you sure?”

 

“I’m positive. As long as I have you”—Draco raises his brows, looking directly into Harry’s green eyes—“then I’m happy. I love you, Harry.”

 

Harry kisses him then, soft and sweet. “I love you, too.” He laughs, shaking his head and scratching his chest absentmindedly. “I’m so in love with you; you drive me bloody crazy, actually.”

 

“Well, most of the time, I’m doing that on purpose,” Draco replies honestly, laughing along with Harry.

 

“Of course you do,” Harry says with a little pinch to Draco’s bum, “you cheeky git. You’ve always been a piece of work.”

 

Draco shrugs and leans back into the bed, pulling the duvet more securely up over them. “M’hungry,” he says after a few quiet moments in which Harry lazily lets his fingers run through Draco’s hair. He would be content to remain like this with Harry, suspended somewhere between awake and asleep and relinquishing the peacefulness that comes after a large emotional toll, but his growling stomach is becoming increasingly harder to ignore.

 

“Me too,” Harry responds. “Want to get a takeaway?”

 

“Yeah,” Draco agrees, “as long as it’s not too spicy. And you can’t leave it sitting on the coffee table for days, either.”

 

“Wimp.”

 

“Slob.”

 

“Sometimes,” Harry says with a chuckle. “Okay, let’s get up.” He quickly throws the duvet off of them, and Draco shrieks from the sudden onslaught of cool air touching his naked skin.

 

“You get it,” says Draco, trying to burrow back down into the soft sheets. “I’ll stay here and keep the bed warm.”

 

“It doesn’t work like that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Harry stands up and pulls on his pants— _backwards,_ the fucking idiot—then throws a hand through his messy hair. He doesn’t say anything more to Draco as he reaches for his tee shirt and quickly puts it on, followed by a pair of jogging bottoms and his Gryffindor red dressing gown. He moves towards the bedroom door without even a look back to Draco.

 

“Harry!” Draco calls after him.

 

But Harry leaves, saying nothing more. There’s the telltale thump of his feet running down the stairs, and Draco groans in frustration. He dramatically pulls himself out of bed and into some clothes—a fresh pair of briefs and his second-favourite dressing gown, because his favourite just so happens to be _Harry’s_ and the greedy bastard has it on for himself. He slips on a pair of silk slippers that Pansy got him for Christmas and pads quickly down the many storeys of the house. He quietly slips into the kitchen where Harry is casually leaning against the tiled wall, his Muggle telephone with the curly cord against his ear and a takeaway menu in his hand.

 

“Yes, a lamb vindaloo and a paneer korma,” he says, twisting the cord around his finger and tapping his foot in time to music that isn’t even playing. “Two rice pilaus and two servings of peshwari naan, please. Oh, and a saag aloo. Cheers, yeah, postcode is N1 9LA. That’s right. Okay, cheers, bye.”

 

Harry hangs up the phone and turns around, spying Draco lingering in the doorway with a cheeky grin.

 

“Got you something extra spicy,” he teases.

 

“You’d better not have!”

 

Instead of saying anything, Harry just walks up to Draco and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. Draco melts into it, gripping onto the belt of Harry’s dressing gown to keep stable.

 

He can’t believe he has this: Harry. As Harry exchanges his dressing gown for his coat and wraps a hand-knit scarf around his neck, Draco finds his heart actually aching with the weight of his emotions for his boyfriend powering through him, especially after how lovely he’d been to him following Draco’s panic. He grabs Harry’s discarded gown and wraps it tightly around himself, a small grin forming on his face as he listens to Harry complain about how _he’s_ always the one who has to order and pick-up the food as he tugs on his boots.

 

“Well, if we get it delivered here, the delivery person is going to be wandering for hours trying to find the bloody place!” says Draco. “And you know how shite I am at talking with Muggles. Besides, you’re always telling me about the great chats you have with the folks at the hotel.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Harry says, waving his hand. “Whatever.”

 

They share one last kiss before Draco pushes Harry out the front door so that he can go to the nearby hotel where they get their food delivered to. Although he knows Harry will only be gone ten minutes at the most, his heart clenches as he watches his partner disappear down the street into the misty London fog. With a sigh and the knowledge that Harry will be back soon with food in tow, Draco shuts the front door of number twelve to keep the heating charms in, and heads towards the dining room to set the table for their dinner.


	18. Chapter 18

Things fall into a sort of… _rhythm_ , after a while. Their time together moves quick yet slow, a simultaneous pattern of working, wondering, worrying, and pushing for more and more. Draco is in absolute awe of Harry, curious as to how he has been chosen by this man. He is in awe, but also on the edge. _All_ the time.

 

Being with Harry has become an exhaustive challenge of staying alert and ready for anything to happen at any time. In the beginning, it was constant, like Harry couldn’t physically keep his hands off of Draco. Now, the expanses of time between each touch, kiss, play, and fuck have become further apart and more unexpected. Draco craves it, constantly looking forward to when he can next get that desired reaction from Harry. And as the days grow longer yet, the air in the upper floors of the future community centre getting stuffy with rare London heat, Harry’s rewards to Draco happen less and less. Because things aren’t going as planned, and everything in the house seems to refuse to want to be fixed.

 

It’s been one week since they last fucked…. _Truly_ fucked. None of this quick half-hearted-blowjob-in-a-cramped-mouldy-cupboard-because-it’s-midnight-and-everyone-is-exhausted-but-Pucey-is-just-next-to-them-in-the-kitchen-still-fighting-that-ancient-stove shit. A coat hook digging into his ribcage and a silencing charm thrown up around them as he deep-throats Harry’s cock with his eyes falling shut in exhaustion is, in Draco’s opinion, the exact opposite of romantic and luxurious, even if it is a bit kinky. Afterwards, Harry breathlessly runs a hand through Draco’s hair and lazily snogs him. He mumbles a ‘thank you’. They stumble out of the cupboard a few moments later and run into a bleary-eyed Pucey, who is stumbling vaguely towards the front of the house, completely oblivious to what Draco and Harry have just been doing next to the kitchen.

 

“Finally finished the bloody thing,” he declares, not even looking excited about it as he gestures towards the cast-iron stove, now in working order.

 

Draco gives him a look of sympathy. “Go on home, Pucey,” he says. “You’ve more than earned a good night’s rest.”

 

“Cheers,” Pucey replies, moving towards the door. “Bye, Draco. Bye, Harry.”

 

Most evenings run very similarly to that one, with someone or another staying late and making it impossible to properly enjoy one another’s company. By the time Draco reaches his flat in the evenings—usually no earlier than half midnight—he is physically exhausted from an entire day of work with little to no time for _any_ sort of relaxation besides a quick shower and whatever food Kreacher has sent him home with. Add in the fact that, despite the hard work, he’s _constantly_ horny when he’s around Harry…. Well, he’s beginning to get a bit frustrated by the lack of action, actually.

 

It all reaches a brand new level just three days after their romp in the cupboard.

 

“Draco,” Harry calls into the sitting room where Draco is kneeled down by the old cracked fireplace, sending spells and charms at it in order to make it suitable to connect to the Floo network. It would’ve been easier had the previous owner kept the original fireplace; instead, they’d chosen to keep just the facade and replace the heating element with some electric atrocity sometime in the 1960s, Draco estimates, and he’s already been working on it for a couple of weeks, now. It’s just another thing to add to the already extensive list of unexpected things which need fixing in this damned house—Draco _really_ wishes Harry had consulted him beforehand instead of just jumping into a sale head-first, although Draco does have to admit that the house will be _perfect_ upon completion, perhaps even more perfect than Grimmauld Place had ended up. However, what they’d initially planned as a three-week long modernisation is quickly turning into another gruelling, multi-month project, and its really running its physical and emotional toll on Draco’s body and mind. It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult; it’s almost like the house is toying with them between the hours of one and five in the morning, and undoes any progress they’ve made with fixing the core elements of the property. That’s impossible, though, as the building is completely Muggle.

 

Draco’s not a huge fan of the help they have this time, either. With Weasley and Granger being the project’s numbers two and three, it means they’re over constantly, undermining Draco’s perfect plans of how to do a perfect renovation using the team he’s perfected over the last couple of years.

 

Hermione Granger certainly does not fit into that perfect plan or perfect team of Draco’s. She seems to almost _enjoy_ barking orders at Draco as if she’s the one running this whole operation. Draco doesn’t like when people tell him what to do—unless it’s Harry in the bedroom, of course. Things don’t go perfectly when he’s not in charge. So, when the witch had waltzed up to Draco on the first day of construction, ripped his plans right out of his grip, and immediately gave her—frankly, _horrible—_ opinion on wood types, Draco had been less than pleased. It took a few days for him to figure out how to handle his annoyance with her, aided profusely by a select few glares and kicks under the table from Harry.

 

Plus, Weasley! _Merlin,_ Draco’d forgotten how annoying he is, constantly butting his stupid bright orange head into business it doesn’t belong in. More than once Draco has thought he might actually go crazy from spending more than three seconds alone in a room with him. Every time it turns into the whole ‘so you’re really not trying to screw Harry over and break his heart, right?’ speech…. Psh, as _if_ Draco has the capacity to do such a thing. Harry is his everything, and even if they’re not fucking as often as he’d like to, he loves him with all his heart and would do anything to show him that. Which is why, as of recently, Draco’s been giving Harry little suggestions of how much he wants him. It’s to remind Harry of what is to come, when this house is finally sorted out and they have the energy to re-kindle the fire of their sex. In the meantime, it’s the little things Draco does to let Harry know that he still owns _all_ of Draco.

 

“Ron just told me you charmed his socks to stay wet again,” says Harry, coming to stand behind Draco.

 

“Now why would I _ever_ do something like that to a weasel?” Draco asks. He brushes some of the soot from his face before standing and twisting around to give Harry a cheeky little smile.

 

Harry doesn’t look impressed. In fact, the frown on his lips grows ever wider. “He _also_ asked about lunch. You know you’re not supposed to act like that in front of the others, right? We’ve been over this, how important it is.”

 

“It was to get your attention, to help you relax,” Draco replies with a little shrug, before turning back to the fireplace to continue working; he doesn’t want to get home at the crack of dawn, again. “You’ve been paying so much bloody attention to those atrocious floor tiles that Granger picked out and the stupid swimming pool and the blasted Quidditch pitch and....” He goes on and on for a bit more about all the things Harry has been focused on in the past couple of weeks, his frustration and impatience with the situation heightening and heightening as he lists all the things. He frowns as he loses focus, accidentally catching a brick with a severing charm.

 

It’s true that Harry has been putting a lot of concentration and personal touch into this house, far more than he did with Grimmauld Place—it’s like he cares more about this place than his own home. Before, it was Draco who’d thrown his back into the work, driving himself crazy at times while Harry had been there to make him a cup of tea, to ground him and make sure he took ample breaks. And then, in the evenings, he’d fuck him so hard that Draco forgot his own bloody name.

 

It’s different, now. The dedication that Harry has for this project is admirable, but the unfortunate result is that they both don’t have the energy they had before to satisfy their libidos. Much like he was during the period of teasing and uncertainty, Draco’s been—dare he say it— _lonely_ with Harry’s much more divided attention. And it’s made him irritable. So he’s started acting a bit… _out of order_ at work in order to capture Harry’s concern again. It seems to have finally paid off now as Harry has _finally_ noticed.

 

“Draco,” Harry says, coming to kneel down next to Draco by the fire, “I _know_ I haven’t been the best recently, but you can’t be acting like this. Teasing Ron is fine, I get it, but walking around like this”—he nods towards Draco’s chest, where his shirt collar has opened up to expose a teasing amount of his pale white skin, dotted with love bites from the cupboard a few days before—“and sitting your arse nearly in my lap at lunch is going to draw attention from others, and we can’t have that.”

 

“Why not?” Draco asks, turning back to face Harry again and pocketing his wand.

 

Harry’s expression turns stern, and he fixes Draco with an assertive gaze. “You know why,” he says.

 

“Yeah, some bullshit about my safety,” Draco retorts back. “Plus, don’t you trust your friends? I thought Granger and Weasel already knew.” He stands up to full height in an effort to make an impact on Harry. The other man doesn’t budge, though.

 

“Your safety is not _bullshit,_ Draco,” says Harry firmly, standing up as well. “Is that what you think this all is?” He waves his arms between the two of them exasperatedly. “Do you think this is some kind of a joke?”

 

“No!”

 

“Well, you’re acting like it.” Harry voice lowers to a hiss. "Ron and Hermione know about us being together, but the others don’t. We _have_ to be careful, Draco; if we aren’t, something could happen to you and I don’t know what I’d bloody do with myself then! And you… you seem like you really don’t give a shit, and it’s _that_ that’s making me angry.”

 

At this, Draco draws back, his face flushing just barely. “So do something about it,” he whispers.

 

It’s a provocation, for sure. He expects Harry to rise to the bait, to challenge back with a harsh press of his hand or a small smack on his arse; their previous bickering has been precursor to a _lot_ of scenes, some so intense that it’s taken entire days for Draco to return to a completely stable and oriented state of mind. Instead, Harry shakes his head. “Let me know when you’re ready to have a mature conversation, like adults.” Then, he turns around and walks out of the room without another word.

 

Draco stands frozen for a few moments, his heart racing in mild panic. _That’s new._ It’s so unlike Harry to walk away from Draco’s remarks; since they were eleven-years-old, they’ve sparred and challenged each other both in words and in actions. But for Harry to just leave it is most unusual.

 

With a sigh, Draco hesitantly returns to his work, running the words of their brief conversation over and over again in his mind until it manifests into full-blown irritation. He can’t figure out where he’s gone wrong; is he not supposed to want Harry’s attention? Isn’t that a crucial part of their dynamic? It’s frustrating…. It took so long for him to understand his obsession with Harry Potter, and even longer to accept it and act on it, and now Harry won’t even let him show it.

 

He lets out a groan of annoyance, sending a small hex towards a chosen-by-Granger-floor tile behind the stupid fireplace that can’t even be _used._ The tile cracks, and Draco shrugs, un-caring; he’ll fix it another day. For now, he’s had enough of this project which is steadily reaching out of his control. He decides to give Pansy a much needed visit—it is a Friday, after all—to try and work out some of the anger he’s feeling.


	19. Chapter 19

“I don’t know, darling,” says Pansy, setting her wine aside. “It sounds to me like you’ve just gotten past the honeymoon stage.” She leans forward and gives Draco a long, thoughtful look.

 

They’re in Pansy’s sitting room where Draco has just relayed the events of the past couple of weeks to his best friend. He’s been far too busy as of recently to see her, so there’s a lot to catch up on. Draco is snacking on Deesey’s homemade biscuits that he likes so much and sipping his favourite hand-blended Earl Grey tea; it has always helped to calm him after a stressful day. Now, as Pansy bends forward with her elbows on her knees and her lips pursed in a look of pity, Draco doesn’t feel very calm.

 

“Sometimes, relationships flatten after a bit of time,” Pansy continues. “You’ve moved past that initial spark.”

 

Draco frowns. “Mine and Harry’s spark was not… _initial,”_ he spits harshly, his lip curling in disdain.

 

Pansy tuts and leans back, bringing her leg over her knee, hitching up her gown to show a thin, gartered thigh. Draco rolls his eyes. “Draco, darling,” Pansy says, “where’s your hyper long list of past relationship experience which justifies your immediate reaction and declaration that you know _exactly_ the ins and outs of this one thing?” She pauses dramatically, then, “Oh, right, it doesn’t exist!”

 

That hurts, and it takes all of Draco’s might to only give Pansy the bird, rather than hexing her totally-not-magically-enhanced-tits off. “Fuck off, Parkinson.”

 

Pansy’s eyebrows furl then, a look of recognition dawning across her face. “Draco, I haven’t seen you this properly upset since…”

 

“Don’t say it,” Draco interrupts with a snap. “I know, okay? I know!”

 

Pansy raises her hands in surrender. “I was just going to say since you were pining after him. You just… you two were _so_ happy. Are you mad at him?”

 

Draco pauses with his hand halfway up to scratch at his head, his cup of tea balancing limply from between his fingers. It slips, a stream of tea falling towards the mahogany floors. Pansy quickly swishes it up with her wand, and Draco’s tense shoulders relax just barely as he shoots her a thankful look and sets the tea down. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “I really don’t. If anything, I’m just so bloody confused.”

 

“About what, exactly?”

 

“I don’t know.” And Draco means it. The answer to Pansy’s question—though as simple as that question seems—is difficult. At the base of Draco’s confusion is the fact that Harry doesn’t really seem like he wants to put much into their relationship anymore, which is curious considering the amount he had to do before for Draco to even _realise_ his intentions were romantic in nature. On top of all that comes Draco’s insecurities; is he desirable? Is Harry losing interest in sex because of him? Is Harry getting bored of him? Is Harry cheating….

 

No, he can’t let himself think like that. Harry would never!

 

“I really don’t know,” Draco says again, this time with a long sigh. “I love Harry. I mean, I _really_ love Harry. But what if….”

 

Pansy reaches out and grasps his hand, encouraging him to continue.

 

“What if he doesn’t love me how he used to?”

 

An expression of shock comes across Pansy’s face. “Draco Malfoy,” she screeches, “that’s nonsense and you know it! Harry is so in love with you.”

 

“You can’t be sure of that, can you?” Draco asks, frowning as the idea settles a bit more firmly in his brain.

 

“No, but _you_ can.”

 

Shaking his head, Draco lets his disappointment settle in his shoulders. Pansy looks annoyed with him.

 

“Are you really going to let the best thing that ever happened to you dwindle away just because of this little disagreement and some insecurities?”

 

“But it’s not just a little disagreement, is it, Pansy?” Draco challenges back.

 

“It _is_ a little disagreement. Christ, Draco, it’s minuscule compared to the other shite we’ve dealt with!”

 

“It is not,” Draco cries.

 

“Salazar,” Pansy groans, throwing her head back to look up at the ceiling. “You’re such a pain in the arse, I have no idea how Potter handles you.”

 

Draco gives Pansy an unimpressed look and sets his tea harshly down onto the top of the table. “Aren’t you exactly the same with Annabel?”

 

“No,” Pansy snaps, “because Annabel and I actually _talk_ about things with each other.” She stands up, her dress flowing down around her legs as she crosses her arms over her chest and gives Draco a firm glance. “Look, if you’re going to come over here just to complain rather than actually listen to the advice I give you, then I’m done. Feel free to come back when you’re ready to listen.” Pansy gestures towards the door, which Draco looks at with a scoff of disbelief.

 

“Really?” he asks.

 

Pansy just nods.

 

Feeling worse than when he arrived just half an hour earlier, Draco hastily pushes past her and down towards the entrance hall. He doesn’t give his best friend a second glance as he slams the front door behind him in fury. At the street level, a woman jumps in surprise at the harsh noise as it echoes across the quiet street. Draco pays her no attention, and Disapparates away from Pansy’s doorstep with a _snap!_


	20. Chapter 20

Despite their increasingly painful and confusing argument, Draco continues his hard work on the community centre, arriving early in the mornings before anyone else and leaving later than all but Harry. They’ve spoken of nothing but business in the past week, leaving Draco moody and easily-provoked. On Monday, he had snapped at Olive for misplacing her wand, and he’d bailed on dinner plans with Pansy the following Wednesday, even though the witch had _promised_ there was a bottle of his favourite elf-made wine with his name on it as an apology for the fight they’d had the week before. Draco decides instead to sit at home, drunk, and fuck himself on a dildo that’s no where near satisfactory when compared with Harry’s _perfect_ cock.

 

He misses Harry a lot, so much so that it’s actually painful. However, Draco has never been one to initiate apologies in situations like this, even now that it’s been a solid decade since he was a constant bullying git. So, he lets his anger and vulnerability consume him, quickly turning him back into the man he was before walking up to number twelve on that cold day last autumn. Now, as glimpses of spring tease the air, the red London buses sending muddy puddles splashing onto pavements and the daffodils and tulips waiting anxiously to open up, Draco feels himself returning to that listless state where he knows of nothing but work, work, work. Except this time, the tension building between him and Harry is something completely different; it’s heavy and unpleasant, always threatening something more but never quite resonating in anything further than a few harsh words and snappy comments about trust and communication. Draco always ends up rolling his eyes, and Harry inevitably will leave the room. They haven’t so much as touched each other in over a week.

 

“Hey,” Pucey calls, walking in and drawing Draco’s attention away from his thoughts about Harry. “The new radiators for upstairs just came in, should I take them up to Harry? He’s doing some of the gas conversion spells up there right now.”

 

“Do whatever you like,” Draco replies grumpily, only half looking up to where Pucey is standing, struggling to hold the weight of a huge parcel marked _‘Harry Potter’_ on it.

 

Pucey makes a little noise of acknowledgment, and thumps his way loudly up the stairs.

 

“And figure out a levitating charm,” Draco shouts after him. “If anything’s broken, it comes out of your paycheck.” He sighs, wondering when his employees got so incompetent. He looks around the first-floor bathroom, which he’s been working on for a couple of days now; it still looks to be in an absolute state of disrepair.

 

So far this morning—until he started thinking about Harry and Adrian so rudely interrupted him—he’s fixed the showerhead to work with heating charms, and plans to spend the rest of the day doing the same with the bath taps. He taps his wand to the showerhead a couple times, and makes a few more minor adjustments as Pucey comes back down the stairs and past the bathroom, muttering apologies. Draco tells him not to make excuses, and returns to his work diligently. It takes a couple minutes and some minor adjustments, but the shower head eventually is running with a smooth, even flow of warm water. Draco is just about to move on when suddenly an ear-splitting cry comes from upstairs, just above him. It rocks him so hard he drops his wand, the elegant hawthorn clattering to the shower tiles loudly. He grabs it back quickly, an anxious pulse beginning in his chest as he moves out of the shower. Already, Goldstein and Pucey are running swiftly up the stairs to investigate the noises, and Draco is not far behind them.

 

He fears the worst; shouts of pain are never a good sign, and in a construction area, it can only mean disaster. He hopes and pleads that he won’t be met with the sight of blood or torn limbs or smashed bones as the three of them hurry up the stairs. The cries are growing into quick, harsh sobs of distress, panic, and hysteria. His heart is in his throat when he reaches the landing, and when he spies Granger, Weasley, Olive, and Perrie huddled around someone in the doorway to one of the upstairs bedrooms, his stomach drops as he does the quick maths in his head. He pushes roughly past them, his eyes immediately falling on exactly what he didn’t want to see.

 

It’s him, his love, the most important person in his life, _Harry._ There doesn’t appear to be any blood or damaged limbs, but the man’s ashen face and shaking body does little to reassure Draco—it’s not a pretty sight, seeing the one you love stricken to a panic. He lurches forward, Harry’s name falling from his lips as he realises his partner is struggling to breathe, tears falling in rushes down his cheeks as Granger and Weasley shout at the others to give them space. Draco ignores them both, pushing his way through the small group to crash down to his knees in front of Harry in an attempt to make it all _stop._ Their little quarrel has fled from his mind, replaced with raw fear.

 

“Harry,” he calls, raising his hands to the man’s face but not knowing exactly where to touch. “Harry, love, what’s wrong?!”

 

Harry’s eyes are open and staring frightfully at the corner of the room where an old dusty bed is pushed. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge anyone’s presence, just the bed. When he suddenly lets out another agonising cry, choking on his own spit in the process, Draco has no idea what’s going on or what to do. He’s never seen his Harry like this, so vacant and terrified, and it shakes him more than he thought possible. He must have been cursed by something, but what?

 

“Someone bloody do something!” he turns and shouts at Weasley, who’s staring at Harry with a similar useless expression of shock.

 

Granger, on the other hand, seems to be thrust into action as she takes in the scene, and she immediately grabs at Draco. “Malfoy, I think you need to leave,” she says calmly. “Ron, call for the Aurors and a Healer.”

 

“No!” Draco shouts, trying desperately to get out of Granger’s grasp as she pulls him away from Harry. Weasley’s terrier Patronus dashes out of the room and the redhead kneels down in front of Harry, blocking Draco’s view. “I need to see him!” he cries, trying to get back to Harry.

 

“It’s for the best. We’ll take care of him,” Granger says, continuing to pull him away. Draco digs his nails into her dark skin, probably leaving marks but not caring as she forces him out of the room and down the stairs. From the top, he can hear Harry’s cries of distress starting back up.

 

“Let me see him!” he continues to shout at Granger. The witch doesn’t listen. “Granger, let me see him. I have to see him. Harry!”

 

“Malfoy, calm down,” says Granger, her tone stern. “Ron has called for the Aurors.” Indeed, a cacophony of _cracks_ can be heard coming from just outside, followed immediately by the front door opening and a series of thumping as people seemingly make their way into the house.

 

“I don’t care,” Draco replies, ignoring what Granger has just said. “I need to stay with him.”

 

“We need to focus on figuring out what happened and getting Harry taken care of, extra people around will just complicate things.”

 

They arrive to the first floor landing at the same time as four wizards dressed in Auror robes. Draco doesn’t recognise them, nor does he even have the patience to look at them properly right now, but Granger waves them up the stairs as she finally pushes Draco down to the entrance hall.

 

“Go have a walk home,” she says, not entirely unkindly. “I promise, I’ll owl you as soon as I know what’s happened.”

 

With a snap, he’s pushed onto the pavement and a shielding charm quickly materialises between him and the house. On the other side, Granger gives him a small, sad smile, then disappears back into the house.

 

The shock of what’s just happened hits him like a Bludger. He’s not sure what to do, at first. He runs up towards the house, screaming Harry’s name and pounding on the door with balled-up fists. Though he’s fuelled up on adrenaline, Granger’s charms are strong. When it’s clear he won’t be able to get back in, he decides to follow Granger’s advice and head home.

 

The guilt is brutal, clouding his judgment and perception and leaving him impulsive. _It’s my fault. It’s my fault._ Those three words are on repeat in Draco’s head as he takes off across Blackheath, desperate to get back into a place he feels safe so he can try and figure out what is going on. Tears have sprung from his eyes, running down his cheeks in heavy streams and clouding his vision. Inside his head, his thoughts are moving too fast and there’s an incessant pounding on the left side, trailing down his neck and into his shoulders as he hitches them up and marches through the damp grass of Blackheath, pushing through a throng of people crossing the pavement towards a bus stop and accidentally catching a few of them on the shoulders as he hastily makes his march through the park. He’s pretty sure he’s headed in the right direction, but it’s dark and he’s too distraught to really pay attention. _I’ve hurt him. It’s all my fault,_ he continues to repeat as he walks, and walks, and walks.

 

He reaches a street that looks vaguely familiar, and as he steps onto the pavement, a harsh sob ricochets through his body and he bends over in grief. He should Apparate back home; it would be quicker, easier, but with a pat to his waist, he realises he’s missing his wand. “Fuck!” he screams out into the night air. Behind him, there’s a rustling, and he turns quickly, poised with his fists up and ready to fight if he needs to. A pigeon flaps out from behind a bush, cooing and prancing around like it owns the place. Draco sends a glare its way as it stops and cocks its head to the side, coming closer to the blond. “Fuck off,” he grumbles, shaking his head and attempting to re-situate himself, to find his grounding and compose his mind before heading home. He must have left his wand back at the house amongst the commotion, so walking will have to do. He sets off again, a bit more collected than before, but it’s with his first clear look around that he realises he’s gone the wrong direction, and is standing somewhere between Blackheath and Charlton Village. He doesn’t recognise any of the shops, the only thing properly lit up being a small chicken shop with one man behind the counter and another sleeping at a table with his head down and hoodie pulled up, an empty box full of napkins dotted with spicy sauce to his side.

 

Draco looks into the chicken shop from across the street, wondering briefly if he should stop in and ask for directions. He decides against it—he’s never been good at talking to common Muggles—and turns around to try and retrace his steps; maybe he can make it back to the community centre to retrieve his wand, then Apparate home and try and figure this mess out before tomorrow morning. As he turns, he spots a familiar pub and some telling lights down at the corner, and has a feeling the high street is just up there and that he mistook a turn earlier. Relieved that things have not taken a complete turn for the worst, he sets off in the direction of the pub. He’s taken five steps when he hears a rustle behind him.

 

“Who’s there?” he barks with shortening breath, jumping around to squint at the dark foliage behind him. The leaves noticeably rustle again—it _can’t_ be a pigeon this time. “I’m warning you,” Draco adds, panic beginning to edge its way in, “I’m armed.” The lie floats off of his tongue—as they always have—though his fear is no dishonesty. The truth is, without his wand, Draco is defenceless. He’s not like Harry, with so much magical skill he can perform anything with just the vague and silent gesture of the hand. If this is someone seeking to harm him—Muggle or magical—then he is considerably fucked.

 

“Is that so?”

 

Draco takes in a sharp inhale. The high-pitched reply has come from directly behind him, and as he turns around, he dreads the way his eyes immediately fall onto a pink-toned, feminine hand with claw-like nails gripping his hawthorn wand.

 

“You know,” continues the scratchy voice, “it really is easy to get information when one knows where to look—or should I say, knows _who_ to look for. And also if they’re especially good at conveniently placing boggarts in places where people like Harry Potter wouldn’t expect to find them, such as shipping parcels.”

 

Dread clawing its way through him, Draco looks up into the eyes of Rita Skeeter. “You _monster,”_ he whispers.

 

Skeeter shrugs her shoulder with a look of indifference, pursing her bright red lips and adjusting her glasses as she stares down her pig-nose at Draco. Draco doesn’t know how he missed her following him before; her robes are bright purple and she has an outrageous amount of pink blush on her plump, almost swollen cheeks. “It’s all part of the job, lovely,” she says. “He’ll be righted again soon…. However it’s _you_ I wish to speak to.”

 

“How _dare_ you hurt Harry like that! I’m not telling you anything,” Draco spits in anger. He’s pretty sure he’s safe from physical harm now, but he also knows that this encounter with Skeeter has the potential to wipe out any progress he’s made with reintroducing his name to the wizarding world. Her journalistic methods rely much less on accuracy and ethicality than they do slander, falsity, and shock-appeal. She definitely has the upper hand, here.

 

“Oh dear, you don’t need to,” she replies. “Your reaction to all of this has given me more than I ever could have wished to get. I knew you were up to _something_ with Mr. Potter, but to now know that it’s more than just a little house makeover?” She clasps her hands together and looks up at the dark grey sky overhead, as if in thanks. “Oh, how wonderful, the readers of the _Prophet_ will be in for quite a treat, to know that their favourite little hero has been in cahoots with a Death Eater all this time instead of doing his actual job.”

 

Draco wants to cry; how could he have let this happen? Skeeter has probably been watching him for months, and he’s been anything but careful. Even with the Fidelius around Grimmauld Place, it seems like Skeeter has gotten plenty of information from elsewhere.

 

As if reading his mind, Skeeter continues. “Did you like my American tourist disguise? You’d be amazed how well it does…. Why, I believe I used the same one on Albus Dumbledore some years back. Works like a charm. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Mr. Malfoy.”

 

“Why don’t you go back to being an annoying little insect like before?” Draco finally responds. He attempts to come across as strong and in charge of the situation, but his shaky voice betrays him, wobbling at the end of the sentence and failing to invoke any kind of assertiveness. His whole life is probably over, now.

 

Skeeter gives him a pitying smile. “Surely you more than most of us know, Mr. Malfoy, how somethings need to be left behind, and replaced with better methods.” She pauses, biting the tip of her long, purple nail with her too-white teeth and ponders him for a moment as her eyes scan his covered left arm. Draco flinches, instinctively grasping his sleeve where his faded Dark Mark sits just below. A wicked grin comes across Skeeter’s face. “My animagus form was compromised, and with it, its journalistic benefits followed. I’ve since had to come up with new, better ways of investigation. I’ve had to be much more patient than I did before, but they have _indeed_ paid-off. You are going to be quite the little treat for readers.”

 

As she says this, her eyes rake up and down Draco’s body from behind her glasses, and he feels himself go sick with alarm. “You wouldn’t _dare,”_ he says.

 

“Oh, but I would. Everyone’s _favourite_ little Death-Eater, turned perverted by the _saviour_. You’ll never have a job again.”

 

“Harry won’t allow this. _I_ won’t allow this.”

 

“You already have, Mr. Malfoy,” she responds, fake sympathy dripping from her expression. “Your—frankly, irresponsible—actions over the past few months have confirmed everything I need to know about your, ahem, _relationship,_ if you can even call it that. Now all I need to do is a simple memory charm so you never remember this conversation has happened. The article should be set to—”

 

She is interrupted by a snap of magic through the still night air, the words freezing in her throat as she is struck immobile, falling straight backwards onto the pavement with a harsh _smack_.

 

“Malfoy?” comes a worried voice from behind them.

 

Draco, still in panic mode, turns to find Granger walking up behind him from the direction he’d come, wand drawn and ready.

 

“What’s happened?” she asks, her eyes falling on the reporter’s clenched hand. “And what the bloody hell is _Rita Skeeter_ doing with your wand?”

 

Suddenly, it’s too much. He’s worried he may pass out, so Draco wobbles over to a nearby bench to sit, his knees weak and shaky from the emotional torment of it all. As he starts to speak, he eyes Skeeter who’s staring at him from the ground with shocked, pleading eyes, and his voice hitches in trepidation. “I, uhm, I got lost and I guess I went the wrong way and she followed me and got my wand and… fuck… she hurt Harry. It— it was a boggart. Sh-she placed it there. To hurt him. All because of me.” Tears finally fall from his eyes, and a sharp, stinging sensation overcomes him, beginning in his nose and traveling up to his eyes and down to his throat. “Oh, Salazar, what have I done!”

 

As he puts his head into his hands, soft sobs overcoming him, he expects Granger to question him further. Instead, she spins on her heel to spit glares at Skeeter. “You fucking bitch.”

 

The words are so even, with no lilt or pressing tone to them, and despite his current status, Draco lets out a shocked and jerked laugh amongst his sobs—Granger _never_ swears. At this moment, with her eyes narrowed into slits, her wand steadily drawn, and her shoulders held back with something ferocious, the witch looks _terrifying._ She is the harder, stronger image of how she was when she’d slapped him back in Hogwarts after Buckbeak was sentenced to death.

 

From the place where she was struck with Granger’s full body-bind, Skeeter continues to stare at Draco with eyes seeking sympathy. Amongst his slowly dissipating panic, Draco feels none for the reporter.

 

“Is Harry okay?” Draco asks, finding his voice again.

 

Granger’s expression softens, and she sits beside Draco on the bench, squeezing his hand once in support. “He’s okay,” she confirms, “just shaken up, as I’m sure you are as well. The Healer came quickly and said there shouldn’t be any long-term issues. I’m sorry I forced you out like that; it was really uncalled for. Ron and I always want to be so careful when things happen with Harry, but we should’ve kept you there. I wasn’t thinking properly.”

 

Draco nods and swallows. His eyes are still trained on Skeeter. “It was a boggart,” he says again, quietly.

 

Granger smiles sadly. “I know. Harry told us, once he’d calmed down.” She stares out into the night sky, thoughtfully. “Ron and I know, by the way.”

 

Alarmed, Draco turns to look at her cautiously. “Know what?” he asks, wary.

 

“About you two being together.”

 

“Oh, right,” says Draco. “That’s okay, I know.”

 

“Harry’s told us everything from the start, actually,” continues Granger.

 

“Everything?” Draco questions, alarmed.

 

“Well, I mean, not _everything,_ thank Godric.” Draco blushes, and Granger gives him a little grin. “But he told us about your argument as well. There’s more but… I think he should talk to you about it.”

 

“Yeah,” Draco says, nodding. “I should’ve seen this coming. Us together, something was bound to go wrong eventually.”

 

“Yes, but you’ll come out of it stronger,” says Granger confidently.

 

At that, Draco looks up into the witch’s eyes and offers her a smile. “Thanks, Granger.” He sighs, twiddling with his thumbs, and looks back over to where Skeeter is still on the ground. “What are you going to do about her?”

 

“I’m sure the Ministry will be keen to know that someone has been using investigative methods that go against the Wizengamot in order to track and spy on Harry Potter. Probably not Azkaban, but definitely a wand restriction, at the very least.”

 

“Granger,” Draco says quietly, still looking at Skeeter, “she has… information. About Harry and me.”

 

Suddenly, Granger stands up, walking quickly over to Skeeter and yanking Draco’s wand from her hand. She goes back to the bench, casts a _Protego Totalum_ over them to protect the conversation, and hands Draco his wand.

 

“What kind of information?” she asks Draco as he pockets his wand and nods in gratitude.

 

Draco stalls for a minute; how does one tell their boyfriend’s best friend that one of the top reporters at the Daily Prophet knows all about the very explicit and intimate nature of their relationship?

 

“Because if you’re talking about the kink stuff, I think I have a way of making sure it never gets out.”

 

Spluttering, Draco turns red in the face. “You _know?!”_

 

Granger looks affronted. “Of _course_ I know. I told you, Harry tells Ron and I everything. Like I said before, not the nitty gritty details, but enough to infer.”

 

A mix of humiliation and reassurance courses through Draco. To realise that two of the people he hated most in school probably know that Draco is a bit of a painslut is… embarrassing, to say the least. The reassurance comes soon after, though; Granger and Weasley have been the two people who are closest to Harry for over a decade. They’ve been with him through literal death, so of _course_ he would tell them. He can’t help but feel a bit hurt, though—after all, didn’t their argument stem from Harry and Draco disagreeing about which parts of their relationship to keep quiet? Regardless, knowing that Harry isn’t completely shut off to the idea of people knowing about them is a source of comfort in this time.

 

“How can we make sure this never gets out?” Draco asks. “It’ll ruin me if it does.”

 

“Well, I previously blackmailed her regarding her unregistered animagus status,” says Granger. “However, that’s useless now; after the War she went through great lengths to make public her ‘journey’ to becoming an animagus. We can’t blackmail something that’s now legal and publicly known.”

 

“And she didn’t even use it in this case,” says Draco with a shake of his head. “She got all her information from stumbling into us in public and manipulation through the outside. Everywhere private we’ve been together has had the highest security on it.” He suddenly recalls how much work they’ve put into the community centre, the times he’d come in the morning after a night of very little sleep and found a fireplace, bath tap, or window in even worse disrepair than the day before. A sickly feeling settles in his stomach as the realisation dawns on him. “Merlin and Morgana, I think she’s been muddling with the community centre.” He turns to Granger, the colour draining from his face.

 

Granger shakes her head. “Fucking Slytherins,” she mumbles beneath her breath, then quickly shoots Draco an apologetic look.

 

Draco is more surprised by the language he’s heard Granger using than he is offended by her bad-mouthing Slytherins.

 

“Do you have any proof?” Granger asks.

 

Draco shakes his head. “No, but think about it; when Harry first showed me the property, I told him it would take a maximum of a couple weeks to finish. It’s been _months_ now, and we’re not even halfway done! We only have the magical security on it when we’re there—when we leave, it’s just locked the Muggle way. She could easily get in with a simple _Alohomora.”_

 

“What a fowl woman,” says Granger, turning to glare at the still-petrified Rita Skeeter. Draco hopes the shielding charm the witch put up earlier was only for noise; Skeeter deserves to see every terrifying look that Granger sends her way.

 

“There must be something we can do!” Draco exclaims. “She can’t get away with this. Surely, there’s some law she’s broken.”

 

“Muggle laws, for sure,” says Granger. “I’m not sure about wizarding though. Probably not, honestly; they’re all quite dated and irrational, really. I’ll have to take a look at one of my law books; it’s been a couple months since I touched up my knowledge on current Wizengamot practices.”

 

“We have to fix this _now,_ though. We can’t keep her petrified for much longer. You have to have something in that brain of yours,” says Draco, exasperated. “Weren’t you top of our class?”

 

Despite their situation, Granger smiles at him. “Is that a compliment, Malfoy?” she asks.

 

“Don’t get used to it.”

 

With a roll of her eyes, Granger turns her attention back to Skeeter. Draco watches as Granger studies the journalist for a while, her thick eyebrows furrowing as a flash of ideas show across her face. Finally, she looks down contemplatively, studying her own wand. “Malfoy,” she says after a long moment of silence, “can you keep a secret?” Her voice is calm, quiet, and very cunning.

 

“Depends what the secret is,” Draco replies, wondering where Granger is going with this.

 

The witch purses her lips. “In fifth year, I placed a jinx on a parchment that each member of Dumbledore’s Army signed. If anyone betrayed us, the jinx would activate on that person. You, of course, already know about this as you were one of the arseholes who caught us.”

 

Remembering, Draco nods. “Marietta Edgecombe,” he says.

 

“That’s her, the snitch.”

 

Draco frowns; the jinx had _not_ been a pretty sight. “So,” he says, “what’s the secret? Harry has told me plenty about the D.A.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m sorry, by the way, for associating with Umbridge back then. It was stupid.”

 

“It was,” says Granger with a nod and a little laugh.

 

“But what does this have to do with Skeeter?” Draco asks.

 

“Well, not to brag, but I have to say my magical skills have greatly improved in the last decade. I doubt I would even need to use a parchment to perform such a jinx, now. Maybe even a hex, as this is such a serious circumstance.”

 

A shocked expression comes across Draco’s face. “Christ, Granger! Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

 

Granger’s eyes are sharp as she turns to look back at Draco. “Well, can you keep a secret, Malfoy?”

 

Maybe Draco previously underestimated Hermione Granger. Because now, as she suggests going behind the law and permanently disfiguring a well-known journalist in an attempt to keep Draco safe, she’s acting more like a Slytherin than a Gryffindor.

 

“I have to say, Granger,” he says, “we’re going to get along much better than I previously thought.”

 

They share a nod then turn back to look at Skeeter, the woman’s eyes growing in fear as Granger flicks her wand to end the shield charm and walks steadily towards her with a growing, fierce grin.


	21. Chapter 21

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place is quiet when Draco walks up to its front step the next morning. He almost doesn’t go up, too afraid of what might happen when he gets to the front door. It’s the fact that the house looks so full of _life—_ a life it didn’t have just half a year ago—which convinces him to go up. To his relief, the door swings open as he taps his wand to the lock and pushes, granting him entrance into the cool house. He looks around the spotless corridor, with nothing seeming out of place save for a pair of ripped blue trainers thrown carelessly in one of the corners. Draco’s heart hitches with affection at the sight of those rugged, muddy shoes; they’re the kind of messy he never thought he would love, but he knows how much Harry adores those trainers. The man practically _lives_ in the bloody things.

 

Draco moves further into the house, noting no noise or movement, however the trainers at the front prove Harry is here, somewhere. As he descends down the stairs into the kitchen, a faint hum of music reaches his ears, the slow strumming of a guitar and a low, droning voice making up the song. It’s different from the typical pop beats that Kreacher likes to play, but as he sets foot in the dimly lit kitchen and his eyes fall on Harry’s form, it all seems appropriate to Draco.

 

Harry looks far better than last time, the warm brown tones of his face taking over the ghostly shade he’d been before. He and Kreacher are both sitting at the kitchen table with cups of tea and a plate of pastries between the two of them. Draco notices now that Kreacher is talking quietly and Harry is listening, open and attentive to whatever the house-elf is saying.

 

Draco clears his throat, and the look on Harry’s face as he turns around to see what caused the noise is more than enough to reassure Draco; they’re okay. Everything is going to be okay.

 

“Draco,” says Harry, his voice soft, loving, and inviting.

 

Kreacher stands up and silently begins to clear his and Harry’s tea, leaving a space for Draco to sit next to Harry. The slow song has ended and moved onto a more upbeat rock song with a bright guitar riff, though the vocals are similar.

 

As soon as Draco sits down, Harry takes his hand and squeezes it tight. Draco reaches for a pastry, notices they’re palmiers—his favourite because as a child he thought they were shaped like hearts—and the words come pouring out.

 

“Harry,” he says, “I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say, I’m just so sorry. Fuck, everything just went to shit.”

 

“What are you apologising for, my love?”

 

Tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, Draco shakes his head. “Everything,” he sighs. “The boggart. The fight. Me acting like a total twit.”

 

“And why the hell would _you_ be at fault for the boggart?” Harry asks, his head tipping to the side as his eyebrows furrow.

 

“It was Rita Skeeter! She’s been there all along, trying to infiltrate us for one of her bloody gossip stories. And I allowed it to happen. You could’ve gotten hurt!”

 

Harry laughs. “Draco, love, I defeated _Voldemort_ about eight times; I can handle a single boggart.”

 

Frowning, Draco runs his fingertips across the table top and wipes away the damp trails running down his face. “You didn’t seem to be handling it very well,” he says, his throat choking as he remembers seeing Harry’s ashen face and locked limbs, almost as if he’d been petrified.

 

“Well,” says Harry, grimacing, “it didn’t take its usual form. I was expecting a dementor, and I got caught off-guard. But I’m okay, now. Especially now that you are here.”

 

Draco’s unsure if he really wants to know what it was that caused Harry to look so broken, but he asks anyway, looking down at the wood grain in the table as he does. “The boggart,” he starts. “What was it?”

 

“It was you.”

 

Draco’s head snaps back up, his disbelieving stare meeting Harry’s somewhere between the two of them. “What?”

 

After taking a steadying breath, Harry reaches out to run his fingers softly down Draco’s arm, over his faded Dark Mark and across his pale wrist. Goosebumps break out over his skin, and Draco has to suppress a shiver when Harry’s thumb traces a slow circle over his pulse point. “The boggart was you. You were”—Harry’s breath hitches, as if the words burn in his throat—“you were dead: bound, too tight, all wrong. And you had slashes all over your body. Fuck, Draco, there was so much blood, more than… more than the last time. I didn’t know what to do. I thought… I thought someone had gotten to you. I thought I’d failed to keep you safe.”

 

“Harry…”

 

“I was so scared. What if our last words to each other had been some quipped bullshit about carpets? You were dead! I was suddenly faced with the potential of a lifetime ahead of me without you by my side, and it fucking broke me, Draco. I couldn’t breathe. Even once it was gone, I would shut my eyes and see your body, covered in blood. And when everyone came up, I was so sure you weren’t real, that you were actually dead.”

 

The troubled look on Harry’s face is enough to break Draco’s heart a million times. He doesn’t know what to do as his partner’s shoulders begin to shake beneath his sobs. It’s the second time in less than twenty-four hours that he’s seen the man he loves—this strong, unbelievable man who has faced the evilest things in their world—break down from his anguish over _him,_ Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater. It’s unimaginable, really, that Harry feels this way about him. That’s the thing about life, though; it’s an extraordinary possibility. Draco thinks that love must be much the same way.

 

“I love you,” says Harry, looking up at Draco through tear-stained glasses. “I hope I never have to go through that again.”

 

Draco raises his hand to Harry’s head, tucking a strand of thick black hair behind his ear and cupping his jaw. “You won’t have to,” says Draco. “I promise.” He leans forward to press a kiss to the dark skin there, rough with stubble but perfect beneath Draco’s lips.

 

Harry turns then, and their lips meet briefly. It’s their first kiss since the argument—chaste, controlled, but still with so much love and attention behind it. It could go on for just a second or an entire millennia; Draco wouldn’t care, as long as he gets to experience this with Harry.

 

“Harry,” says Draco as he pulls reluctantly away, “there’s so much to discuss still.”

 

“I know, darling, I know.” Harry pushes his glasses up his nose and studies Draco carefully. “Are you okay? Did Skeeter do anything to hurt you?”

 

Draco shakes his head. “No. She managed to disarm me when I was in a panic over you, but she didn’t do anything physical. She just used her words; luckily, Granger came around and stunned her.”

 

“Just stunned?”

 

“Well…” says Draco, unsure if it’s safe to tell Harry about the hex they’d put on the witch before sending her on her way; if she so much as _mentions_ Draco’s name, even in writing, her tongue will painfully split in half and tie itself into a knot, completely irreversible except by Hermione Granger’s wand. The reporter was well aware of the hex by the time Granger allowed her to go, and Draco is confident he and Harry are safe from her manipulations from now on.

 

“It’s okay, Hermione told me about the hex,” says Harry. “It’s just the four of us that know about Skeeter—me, you, Hermione, and Ron. We told the others and the Aurors that I misfired a spell and accidentally struck my vocal cords. We’re safe.”

 

Draco breathes a sigh of relief.

 

“Merlin,” Harry grumbles with a shake of his head, “I fucking hate Rita Skeeter. She’s been after me since I was fourteen-years-old. I should’ve suspected something was up when she stopped trying to contact me a couple months after I quit the Aurors. I shouldn’t have been so ignorant.”

 

“No, Harry, _I_ was the ignorant one,” Draco proclaims. “I was careless with us and she managed to wriggle her way in. The boggart was her finale, her proof of us, and she executed it flawlessly; if it weren’t for Granger, she would’ve had us. We would’ve been over.”

 

“Draco,” says Harry, placing his hand atop Draco’s knee and squeezing, “I need you to know, right now, that even if she’d succeeded in revealing us to the public and undermining your name, that I would’ve fought for you. What she did was fucked up, but it could never, _ever_ destroy the love I have for you.”

 

His words nearly cause Draco to break down into tears again, because once more, he cannot believe how much Harry loves him. For a man like Draco, who’s made so many mistakes and done some of the most horrid things, he’d thought that love would always be unattainable. But now, he has it, and it’s the strongest force he’s ever reckoned with; it puts the Dark Lord’s power to absolute shame.

 

“You really like to turn me into a mess, don’t you?” Draco asks with a sniffle as he wipes away a few stray tears that have managed to escape down his face.

 

Harry gives him a watery smile. “It seems to be what I do best.” Then, he winks, and Draco lets out a laugh.

 

“Cheeky bastard,” he says, burying his head into Harry’s shoulder and taking a deep breath. Harry’s smell is hard to name, but it’s familiar and it’s _home._ Draco never wants to go another day without it there to ground him. “Gods, I was so lost without you. Even Pansy couldn’t pull me back together, and she’s been doing that since we were in bloody nappies.”

 

As Harry’s lips come to press against Draco’s temple, the blond shuts his eyes and breathes in deep again. “You must really love me,” says Harry.

 

“I do,” Draco whispers. “So much.”

 

They both go silent for a long while. The run of the tap as Kreacher continues washing up trickles quietly in the background along with their breathing and the sound of soft acoustic guitar strums. Kreacher could just use cleaning spells with a flick of his hand, but Draco reckons he’s using the washing up as an excuse to listen in on his and Harry’s conversation; the bloody house-elf is actually a huge softie who’s been striving to have Draco alongside Harry this entire time.

 

It’s Harry who breaks the silence after some time. He runs his fingers over the base of Draco’s neck, up and through his hair to his scalp. His fingers play a gentle massage on Draco’s head, relieving so much of the tension from the past few weeks that Draco feels he may slip unconscious. “I feel like such a bad boyfriend and Dom; you needed support and clarification, not to be told you couldn’t do absolutely anything.”

 

Frowning, Draco sits forward and starts to protest, but Harry raises his finger and continues.

 

“Let me finish, love.” Harry gives him a small smile, then continues. “Your behaviour was, of course, unruly, but I should’ve expected that. After all, you’re Draco Malfoy; it’s your naughty side that I love so much. It was stupid of me to think you could just get over it, that I could force you into not being yourself. I’m sorry.” With a little laugh, Harry shakes his head. “I guess we _both_ need to go back and take a look at what’s required in a relationship, BDSM or not. I was supposed to _teach_ you, and I failed, and I’m sorry.”

 

“You don’t need to apologise,” Draco reasons, “but I understand, nonetheless. I’m sorry, as well. We didn’t communicate with each other like we were supposed to. And I was, frankly, acting like an absolute brat.” He laughs, then, “You can punish me for it, later.”

 

With that, Harry’s gaze darkens and oh, Draco is _delighted_ about it.

 

“Fuck, I want nothing more than that,” says Harry. He digs his fingers into Draco’s scalp just a tiny bit harder, sending a shiver down the blond’s spine. “I’ve missed being with you so much.”

 

Draco thinks carefully about what he’s going to say next. “I understand now why you were so adamant about us being careful, Harry,” he says. “Skeeter really did plan on ruining my life. I wish it didn’t have to be that way, but I know now how attentive we have to be.”

 

“I really wish it didn’t have to be that way,” says Harry with a nod. “But it is, and until we can change our identities and run away to, I don’t know, Australia, it’s going to stay that way. But Merlin, I wish I could hang it in big letters in the Ministry atrium right now: _I own Draco Malfoy’s arse -Harry Potter.”_

 

He pinches said arse and Draco lets out a squeak of surprise. “You’re so romantic.”

 

“I am,” Harry protests. “Here, I’ll prove it.” He grips Draco’s head, pulling it up so that their lips can meet in a rough, hot crash. Draco laughs into the kiss at Harry’s proclamation, then pushes back, allowing their mouths to settle into a long, heated embrace.

 

They snog for a few minutes—Kreacher grumbling about indecency in the background but _still_ continuing to do the washing up—with a few interruptions to engage in banter and teasing. It’s like everything is aligned once again, and as Draco pulls back from a bite to his lower lip, he gives Harry a cheeky grin. “You know what a true romantic man would do right now?” he asks.

 

“Well,” says Harry, “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

 

So, Draco tells him. He catches a glance at Kreacher, mouthing ‘cover your ears’ to the house-elf, then carefully leans in to press his lips nearly against Harry’s ear. The house-elf scrambles out of the kitchen just as the disc on the record player scratches to an end and Draco whispers, very quietly, into Harry’s ear, “He’d gag me, tie me up to the kitchen table, and fuck me until I forgot my name.”

 

“That can be arranged, I think.”


	22. Chapter 22

“I feel like it’s been too long since I’ve had you like this, darling—tied up, begging for me to give you mercy.”

 

Draco is spread out on Harry’s king-sized bed much in the same way he’d been spread during their first ever scene together. It’s been well over six months since that evening in the hotel room. Now, the walls of what used to be Sirius Black’s bedroom in number twelve, Grimmauld Place stand all around them. Just to the right of an arch in the middle of the room, an antique mahogany wardrobe reigns tall, its doors open to reveal the contents of inside to the two men in the room.

 

Neatly and exquisitely displayed on the wardrobe’s hooks, rails, and shelves is everything a submissive like Draco could ever want—whips, gags, harnesses, dildos, butt plugs, floggers, clamps, collars, _everything._ What he wants most, though, is a man to use all of those things on him; more specifically, a man named Harry Potter.

 

“Oh, fuck, more!” Draco cries as a teasing finger comes to play between his arse cheeks.

 

 _Slap!_ A whip cracks down across his flank. A yelp escapes from the blond.

 

“How do you talk to your Master?”

 

“Oh,” Draco whines. “S-sorry, Sir.”

 

“It really has been _so_ long, hasn’t it, my love? You’ve forgotten how to behave.”

 

“Yes, Harry. Yes.”

 

Harry chuckles darkly, trailing the whip lightly down the harsh lines of Draco’s body. “And why is that, Draco?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know, Sir,” says Draco, trembling. He clenches his eyes shut and bows his head down as the whip comes to touch the top of his thigh with a harsh _whack,_ lurching the bed forward. The harsh snap of magic crackles around them, the air warm and heavy with it as Harry’s hand comes to rub reassuringly into Draco’s welted thigh.

 

“You do know. Think about why you haven’t been able to please me, Draco.”

 

Draco coughs as Harry’s hand comes to encircle his neck, pressing but not restricting.

 

“Did you misbehave?”

 

Tears springing from his eyes, Draco manages a meagre, “Yes, Sir.”

 

“And what did you do?” asks Harry, his fingertips pressing in just a bit more.

 

“I was disobedient, Sir. I didn’t respect our relationship.”

 

After a few long seconds of nothing, Harry’s breath ghosts Draco’s ear, sending shivers running down the sub’s spine. “Good boy,” he whispers, his breath low and husky. Then, “Check?”

 

“Green, Harry,” says Draco, arching his arse back. “So fucking green.”

 

 _Smack!_ The whip comes cracking down across Draco’s bum again, this time without Harry even touching it. Magic sparks all around them, little currents of electricity that causes the light spattering of hair on Draco’s legs to stand on end and the Muggle lightbulbs in the chandelier above to flicker.

 

“You make me go fucking crazy,” Harry hisses, leaning down and biting Draco’s earlobe. His hands tighten around Draco’s neck, his fingertips bruising the skin and constricting Draco’s flow of breath. They’ve done this once—before their argument—but Harry is stronger this time, less forgiving. It’s that thought of how powerless he is in that moment that turns Draco light-headed, and he gives a weak pull at his restraints to show Harry how much he appreciates it. He remembers his left leg, knows he is to give four short, sequenced yanks to the restraint with it if things go too far. He won’t have to, though—not with Harry.

 

Draco whines Harry’s name as the other wizard loosens his grip, letting his fingers slip loose to come up and tease Draco’s lips. Greedily, Draco opens his mouth to suck, and Harry chuckles.

 

“Look at you; we’ve barely begun and you’re already moaning and sucking like a whore.”

 

Those words, more than any other words Harry has ever said to him, nearly bring Draco to an orgasm right that second. Harry gasps as Draco jumps forward with a sharp cry, his cock suddenly so hard that it borders on painful.

 

“Oh, you like to be degraded then, do you?” Harry asks, his voice lilting a bit with a fair amount of interest.

 

Ashamed, Draco turns bright red as he tries to look away from Harry’s gaze, but the other man is quick to force his eyes back, leaning his face to the side right into Draco’s space.

 

“Look at me,” he commands, and Draco obeys.

 

Salazar, Harry’s eyes are _green._ Draco knows this, of course—has known it since he was a young child—but at this moment, the colour is shocking. It’s almost too intense to look at, much like the bright spark of those explosions that the Muggles put off in November and New Year’s. They break down every one of Draco’s walls and leave him raw and exposed for Harry to see.

 

“Do you like being fucked hard, baby?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Draco mewls. “Please, fuck me.”

 

 _Slap!_ The whip comes down again. “Maybe in a bit,” says Harry. “But I’m enjoying this too much right now.”

 

Draco knows how much Harry likes it when he begs throughout his teasing; it makes the fucking even that much better, when he realises that Harry’s cock is even better than he remembers. All the begging is _so_ worth it.

 

As if in confirmation, Harry grunts as he yanks Draco’s thighs apart, exposing his arse. “Come on, baby, beg for it.”

 

So Draco begs. He cries out Harry’s name, over and over again as Harry lays the gentlest of touches with his finger to Draco’s arsehole. There’s no penetration, just frustratingly slow brushes which tease something so much more.

 

“Harry, please,” whines Draco. He gives another helpless pull at his restraints.

 

“You’re being especially whiney this evening, darling. What is it that you want?”

 

“Just… more,” Draco gasps. “More of everything. Choke me, fuck me, _everything,_ please.”

 

“Hmm….” Harry pulls back in contemplation. He hovers above and behind Draco, his bright green eyes scanning the pale expanse of Draco’s back, over his bum, and down his lean legs to his strapped ankles. “I think a change of position is needed.”

 

“Wha—” Draco begins to ask, but he’s interrupted by his wrist bindings coming unlatched from the bed’s frame. He swallows, his eyes following his hands as a heavy force of magic lifts his body up into a sitting position, his arms raising without any effort to meet above his head. His wrist bindings come together with a _click,_ and Draco is left spread upright over the bed, his ankles still attached at either side of the frame while his hands are secured tightly above him.

 

Harry has stood up now, watching Draco with a lazy trail of his wand in the blond’s direction. He’s not saying any verbal spells, the magic simply washing over Draco with effortless waves. He looks more in command than ever, his black dress shirt hanging open to show where his erection strains against the front of his pants. “How do you like this?” he asks, reaching out to trail a finger down Draco’s scarred chest.

 

Shivering at the touch, Draco enthusiastically nods his head. “Yes, Sir, it’s so good.”

 

Compared to when he’s bound face-down, in this position Draco feels entirely exposed to Harry. His chest and arms are on full display, but most importantly, Harry can see every expression he makes; there’s no burying his face into the pillow like this, no hiding his flushes of humiliation when Harry does something especially wicked. It’s the wicked things that Draco loves the most, their actions that are almost too vulgar to even consider.

 

“I bloody love you like this,” Harry mumbles, crawling up the bed to sit just in front of Draco. In this position, Draco is above him, but that doesn’t change the fact that Harry is one-hundred-percent in control. “I love to see all of you.”

 

As he says this, he gives a quick tug at Draco’s pink cock, the hard length bobbing and straining as his hand slips off and returns to running over Draco’s thighs. Draco lets out a frustrated moan at the teasing, but his throat quickly lilts as Harry's fingers come up to sharply pinch his nipples. It’s an onslaught of sensations happening all over his body in some of his most sensitive places.

 

“Harry,” he whines.

 

“Yes?” Harry teases, bringing his hand back up to Draco’s throat and tentatively closing around it.

 

“Fuck, harder,” Draco gasps.

 

“Choke you harder?”

 

“Yes!”

 

Harry’s hands tighten again just as he bites down roughly onto Draco’s shoulder. Draco lets out a choked scream, the pressure around his neck gradually becoming harsher and harsher.

 

“You little masochist,” Harry croons as he continues to choke Draco. “You’re dirty, Draco. So fucking dirty.”

 

Draco doesn’t respond, just opens his mouth and lets his eyes roll back into his skull, letting Harry’s dominance over him course through. Merlin, he’d _hoped_ for this, to have bruises all around his neck for the next few days. He’s (reluctantly) agreed with Harry to have dinner with Weasley and Hermione this coming weekend, and to see Weasley squirm when he sees what his best mate has done to Draco Malfoy, well… it will make the dinner worth it. Plus, Hermione isn’t so bad. She’s okay enough that Draco’s stopped calling her by her surname, at least, and what she did to Skeeter _was_ pretty brilliant.

 

He doesn’t want to think about Hermione Granger right now, though—not Hermione Granger or her doting ginger boyfriend, because right now Draco has Harry Potter’s hands wrapped around his neck, playing with the edge of consciousness, and it’s absolute _bliss._ He almost reaches his utmost point, and then the edge slips away.

 

“Are you still with me?” Harry asks, his voice gone soft and his hands loosening their grip.

 

Some of the blood comes rushing back to Draco’s head, and he gasps to catch his breath. “Fuck,” he says hoarsely, his throat already wrecked, “that was incredible.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” says Draco tipping his head back and letting his lungs inflate, rise, deflate, and fall.

 

“It’s supposed to be even better when combined with an orgasm,” Harry says. He raises his hand, and a bottle of lube zooms into it. “Which”—he cracks open the bottle, squirting a hefty amount onto his fingertips—“I plan on letting you have _many_ of this evening, my love.”

 

And then, he slips his first finger in past the tight muscle of Draco’s arse, and Draco lets out a mighty howl.

 

“Gods,” Harry grunts, “I’m so fucking lucky.” He bends his finger, and Draco arches off the bed with shaking thighs. Above him, his arms tremble with the weight of holding his entire body up. “I get to see you like this, and _no one else_ does.” Another finger comes to tease Draco’s entrance, and Harry continues talking. “You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever bloody seen and you’re all mine. Mine to hurt, mine to fuck, mine to keep.”

 

“Ungh, Harry!”

 

“Say it back to me.”

 

A promising graze to his prostate—Draco jumps, his ankle bindings clattering against the bed frame. “Yours,” he gasps out, tears springing from his eyes as Harry crooks his fingers against that special place again. “All yours, Sir.”

 

“No one else?”

 

“No one else,” Draco confirms.

 

Harry places his hand over Draco’s cock and gives it a slow, delicious tug. “Good boy,” he praises. “What should we do next? You took the whip and the choking so wonderfully, my beautiful. Do you want me to hurt you more?”

 

“Oh, please, Sir,” Draco pleads. He shuts his eyes and attempts to spread himself even wider above the bed, to force Harry’s fingers even deeper and harder. “I want to feel you for weeks.”

 

“Weeks, hm?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, I think I have a suitable punishment,” says Harry. He slips his fingers out of Draco with a dirty, wet noise, stands up from the bed, and goes to the nightstand. Draco lets out a noise of protest, but watches through heavy-lidded eyes the way Harry moves, so confidently, with his massive cock continuing to tent the front of his pants. All his Dom’s focus, however, is on _Draco._

 

Draco doesn’t expect what happens next. Harry is on him in just a fraction of a second, his light hawthorn wand in hand and pointed directly at Draco’s throat. Just the autumn before, Draco would’ve thought his life was about to end at this moment, with Harry Potter restraining him at wand point. Now, it sends a rushed spark of arousal to his cock. Time seems to come to a standstill as he swallows, the tip of Harry’s wand resting just hard enough atop his Adam’s apple so that it bobs with his throat.

 

“Do you trust me?” Harry asks.

 

“With everything,” says Draco with a nod.

 

Slowly, Harry’s wand lowers, but his expression stays something fierce. “A while ago, I asked you if you thought I was invincible.”

 

Confused, but remembering the instance, Draco just nods; it had been after their mishap with the wax play.

 

“You said I could take anything that got thrown at me,” Harry continues.

 

Draco nods again, still remaining silent.

 

“And do you still feel that way?”

 

Getting his voice to say more than just a few words after being choked is difficult; Draco’s throat is a wreck. But this is important. He has to tell Harry this. “I think,” he whispers, “that you are a one-of-a-kind man, Harry Potter, and that you would never do anything to hurt me.”

 

“But you _have_ been hurt. I’m not invincible,” says Harry, the severity of his tone wavering.

 

“No,” says Draco, taking a deep breath, “but I trust you to know what you can and cannot do.”

 

Harry swallows sharply, then asks Draco again, “Do you trust me?”

 

Draco looks him directly in the eyes. “Do what you want to do to me, Harry. I trust you.”

 

It seems to kickstart something in his partner, a fire and ferocity that was absent before. Draco lets out a muffled cry as Harry jumps forward for a teeth-crashing kiss, laying bites to his lip which in result turn raw and bloody. Their saliva mingles between their mouths with a generous amount of Draco’s blood, and as Harry pulls back, Draco can spot a little droplet on Harry’s lip.

 

“I want to destroy you,” Harry says with the darkest voice Draco’s ever heard.

 

“Then do it,” Draco responds, breathlessly.

 

A warmth encompasses him, and the magic that’s suspending him above the bed tightens, pulling Draco upwards. His back goes ramrod straight, his shoulders aching as a strain begins to form at the point in the middle of his lower neck. Harry has left the bed, and Draco cranes his vision to see what he’s doing. The Dom is standing in front of the wardrobe, his hands on his hips as his eyes scan the shelves beyond smudged glasses. Something catches his eye, and he returns to the bedside with it clenched in his left hand, his wand in the other. Draco’s eyes follow down Harry’s arm to his hand, his expression going wider as his gaze settles on a ballgag.

 

“Just for a little bit,” Harry promises. “I love your moans too much to have them missing for long. Open up, darling.” Of course, Draco obeys, because he _loves_ when Harry gags him.

 

Behind him, Harry comes back onto the bed and slips the gag into Draco’s mouth. He secures the strap tight, and Draco can feel the leather cutting into the skin of his cheeks.

 

“How’s that, baby?”

 

Draco gives an experimental moan into the gag, the rubber suppressing his mangling of words. His boyfriend seems to understand Draco’s enjoyment, though, and presses a soft kiss between his aching shoulders.

 

“You’re being so good for me,” he says. His hand comes down to grasp Draco’s aching prick, and the jerk the blond’s body gives is sudden and thrashing. “That’s it, baby,” Harry continues, his wrist moving in slow thrusts. Draco watches through teary eyes as his cock disappears and reappears from his boyfriend’s fist. He tries to moan Harry’s name, but the rubber in his mouth turns it into a garbled mess.

 

Fingers return to his arse, finally. They’re slick with lube, pushing in past the tight ring of muscle. Draco almost comes immediately as the tips of Harry’s fingers reach up inside him to just brush against his prostate. However, Harry’s firm grip around his straining cockhead leave him just on the brink. He mewls into the ballgag, lurching his body up and down to try and fuck himself on Harry’s fingers. However, the spell Harry’s used to suspend Draco is strong, too taught to let Draco move up and down; he’s stuck, unable to force himself to move more than a few millimetres. It seems that he won’t be able to do any of the work, and he’ll simply have to take everything Harry gives to him.

 

Which is _more_ than enough. Draco’s so on edge, almost overwhelmed by the amount of sensations he’s experienced in such a short amount of time—the binding, the whipping, the suspension, the fingering, the choking, the biting, the gagging. It’s all so much and has him shaking almost beyond control. He screams into the gag as Harry pushes a third finger in, arching them up to jam at his prostate. _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ is all he can think and shout, though he knows the only thing his Master can hear besides his sharp whines is a lilt that mimics the rhythm of Harry’s name being spoken. Harry must know, though—he _has_ to, because just seconds later, the ballgag drops from Draco’s mouth and falls to the bed.

 

“Scream my name, lovely,” Harry hisses into Draco’s ear.

 

“Oh, Harry!” Draco cries, his response immediate as his Dom’s grip on his cock disappears. Draco looks down in discomfort to find his cock straining, red and painful and with no relief. “Harry, I can’t take it!”

 

“Yes you can.”

 

Harry’s now free hand grabs his hawthorn wand from where it was left on the pillow, and then Draco feels the unmistakable touch of it to his back. And then, a pause.

 

“Green, Harry,” Draco encourages softly after a long moment. He wants to make sure Harry knows that he wants this, because he wants this _so_ bad.

 

The first time the sparks land on his body, Draco’s pretty sure he jerks out of his own skin. It’s not quite a _Vermillious_ , echoing somewhere between those Muggle vibrators and the sparklers he’s seen on the telly sometimes. The pain from it mimics that of the flogger, of their first time together. It’s hot and multiple, scattering about up and down his skin as Harry’s hand moves his wand all around Draco’s back and ribs.

 

Through his sketchy vision, he watches his own cock twitch and strain at empty air as Harry showers his skin with hot, painful sparks. When one lands on a particularly sensitive bit of his skin, he can see his prick actually quiver, seeking any sort of contact. He’s been just on the brink of an orgasm now for what feels like hours, and it looks like his cock isn’t going to be able to take much more denial.

 

“Harry,” Draco cries as Harry sends another shock of sparks from his wand over Draco’s back, his fingers simultaneously jabbing at his prostate. “Harry, please, I can’t take it anymore.”

 

“I think you can take more than that,” Harry growls. With that, Draco feels an incredible burn in his arse, and realises in shock that Harry is adding another finger. He’s more than stretched enough, arousal rather than pain being the cause for the fresh round of tears to spring from his eyes. Harry’s hand pumps in and out, in and out, his thumb teasing the rim of Draco’s arse while the other four fingers arch up into him to slam into his prostate. It’s a harsh, constant, and driving ache, swelling inside him with great waves. It goes up, and up, and up, rising in a surge of sensation that starts in his groin and spreads along his veins and into everywhere else on his physical form.

 

And then, it all crashes down as—with his cock completely untouched—Draco screams himself into an avalanche of an orgasm.

 

Around him, a lightbulb bursts. His arms fall from above, cascading him forward into a heap on the bed as Harry’s spells diminish. Harry crashes down on top of him, a heavy groan erupting from the man’s throat as he roughly thrusts his hips down.

 

Draco is still coming when Harry enters him, his arse wet and open and giving absolutely no refusal to Harry’s cock thrusting deep inside. He clenches around the intrusion as he lurches forward once again, another strip of come squirting from his cock onto the sheets. Behind, Harry starts hammering into him without any sense of rhythm, grunting and moaning senselessly. It’s just a handful of those thrusts which bring Harry to the peak of orgasm, his thick cock spilling its seed into Draco just as the blond begins to slip away, absent and floating into subspace. His vision blacks out just as Harry says to him, softly, “You are exactly the man I needed.”


	23. Chapter 23

For most of Britain’s wizarding society, it’s the event of the decade. Throngs of reporters—from the _Prophet_ down to the smallest independent papers—crowd the driveway, hoping to catch a glimpse of the glamorous party inside and the witches and wizards attending. Most importantly, they’re there for Harry Potter. It’s hardly a public affair; only a handful of press have actually been allowed inside, and though the guest list is substantial, it is only made up by the best of the best, those who have supported the Golden Community Centre from its inception and the top Ministry officials. One person who’s absent, many notice, is Rita Skeeter, who ran from her editor’s office the previous week, clutching her bloody mouth and making horrible screams. The Healers at St. Mungo’s have never seen such a curse; they’ve reported that they have very little hope to save the reporter’s tongue, and that she may never speak again.

 

It’s a mild autumn evening, and most of the guests have taken to conversing in the beautifully decorated garden. The pool has been enchanted to show a beautiful colour display that moves in sync with Celestina Warbeck’s singing, the pigments reflecting off the still water in such a magnificent spectacle that magic is the only thing which could ever be responsible. A small glass pavilion sits in the centre of the garden, and in the middle of that is a table laden with elegant flutes full of magically-filling champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Near the summerhouse, the head of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee’s husband performs a series of Muggle ‘magic’ tricks to a mix of speculative and excited onlookers. At one point, he pulls a white dove from his top-hat, and Weasley turns to his girlfriend with a look of astonishment. “I’ve never seen that spell done without a wand!” he exclaims as Hermione giggles into her champagne glass, applauding politely when the ‘magician’ bows and smiles out at them after finishing his performance.

 

Afterwards, whispers travel through the guests. The pure-bloods discuss the ‘magician’ in awe of what he’s done, while the half-bloods and Muggleborns watch their helpless friends and partners with glee, everyone silently agreeing not to say a word. Draco Malfoy is not one of these pure-bloods; he’d seen the act before, wary the first few times until Cedwyn had explained his husband’s use of suit sleeves to hide the bird.

 

Draco moves through the crowds of people, making sure not to upset anyone’s drinks or canapés and accepting congratulations when it is given to him occasionally. He sidles up next to Adrian Pucey and Anthony Goldstein, and they all raise their champagne flutes to clink together.

 

“Another job well done, boss,” says Pucey with a small.

 

“Pucey,” Draco replies with a small frown, “don’t call me ‘boss’. It’s weird.”

 

“You got it, boss,” Pucey says with a wink before turning and walking towards the Foster twins who seem to be challenging each other to down flutes of champagne in one drink. Draco grimaces as Perrie stumbles drunkenly into her sister and reaches forward to grab Pucey for leverage from the offending alcohol.

 

“Have you talked to Harry much tonight?” Goldstein asks, his voice lowering amongst the mumbling of the crowd around them.

 

“Been trying to pry him away from the Minister for the last two hours,” Draco replies, glancing over to the group of people that stand between him and his boyfriend. On the other side of the garden stands Harry, deep in conversation with Kingsley Shacklebolt and throwing his arms out wildly as he explains some silly thing or another.

 

This is Harry’s first official public appearance since his announcement to quit the Aurors back in 2002, and the main reason for the hoards of press surrounding the outside of the stately home. They’re all desperate for a glimpse of the Saviour, to finally be privy to the events of his life that have surpassed over the last three years. The truth is, not much has changed in those three years; he’s still the same powerful, brave, and wild-haired wizard he’s always been. Only now, there is a hard-working, determined, and (not always, mind you) dramatic wizard who is very much in love with him.

 

He spots him now, their eyes meeting somewhere across the tops of others’ heads as Hermione stands and casts _Sonorus_ on herself, grabbing everyone’s attention. Draco seizes that moment, and edges his way ever so closer to Harry as the witch begins a speech. She says some sentimental thing about spaces of integration and healing, then raises her glass in a toast. Everyone raises their own glass, and a chorus of ‘cheers’ rings out over the crowd before falling back into quiet and content discussion. Draco is inching ever so closer to Harry when a hand grabs him out of nowhere, short black nails raking over his skin.

 

“Salazar, Pansy,” Draco exclaims, turning to his best friend with a glare. The witch is dressed to the nines, her silk black robes falling in elegant folds down the length of her body. She steps forward and gives him a wicked look. Annabel is hanging off of Pansy’s arm, wearing a tight and skimpy Muggle-style dress in a shimmering grey fabric which accentuates her slim hips and chest. The two together are really something.

 

“Draco,” Pansy drawls, “you look like you’re about to rip someone’s head off. Is something the matter?”

 

“I’m just trying to get Harry’s attention,” says Draco, frowning. “He’s been talking with the Minister all bloody night.”

 

Pansy rolls her eyes. “You are _such_ a drama queen,” she says. “This is probably the most important day in his life since the battle, and you’re whinging on about how he’s not paying any attention to you—as _if_ he’s not bloody obsessed with you. You’re both too lovestruck and dopey-eyed for your own good. It’s a bit sickening, sometimes.”  

 

Eyeing Draco’s little pout at her teasing, Pansy purses her lips and gives him a little grin.

 

“Darling, give him this one night; he deserves it. Besides, we both know he has something very special up his sleeve for you tonight.”

 

Pany’s smile turns devilish as Draco’s face flushes, remembering Harry’s earlier promise to him. It’s a promise too wicked to think about here, amongst some of the most important social and political figures in their world. He bites his lip, trying to ignore the incessant buzz and thrill that comes from the anticipation of what is to come.

 

Over a time period which is quickly edging closer and closer to a year now, Harry and Draco have managed to quietly create something intimate and beautiful between them, both with their bodies and the world encircling them. They have experienced passion to its very limits, pushing the line between pain and pleasure with practised and perfected efforts. Across the river in North London, where a crumbling terraced house once slumped into its neighbours now stands an immaculate home, worthy of a wizard as powerful as Harry. It’s the sort of place Draco knows he will someday call home as well, when Harry eventually puts on his big boy Gryffindor boots and asks Draco to move in with him—he suspects that _might_ come after tonight’s affair. And here, on the top of Blackheath on a quiet and forgotten street, stands a similar house which will now be home to anyone who might need it, regardless of blood or status. Its purpose is one of love, of welcoming and acceptance, and Draco couldn’t be prouder of it nor the man who worked his arse off to see it completed. This partnership they have—which started as uncomfortably stiff and professional and moved into the territory of somewhere between fervor and obsession—has ultimately culminated into something else, something distinct from pleasure and passion yet still carefully entwined within them. It has been a progression, of sorts, where they’ve moved their way through the many titles that come between two people. Somewhere, in the midst of biting kisses, dust, and boggarts, Draco Malfoy has fallen in love with Harry Potter.

 

He watches him now as he says something or another, gesturing animatedly with his hands and causing the Minister to bend over, overcome with laughter. He’s long decided against trying to navigate and make sense of how his life turned out like this, with Harry as such an essential cog in the everyday happenings. He doesn’t see his personal or professional life as being able to progress much further without Harry; since the completion of the Golden Community Centre, he’s had a nearly constant influx of owls coming from all across Britain, Europe, and even America seeking his expertise. The Malfoy name no longer makes witches and wizards fall into unsure silences, plagued by memories of poor decisions and manipulation from the most infamous of dark wizards of all time. Now, Draco’s name shines, giving others an opportunity for hope and new beginnings which starts with the places they love and call home.

 

Leaving Pansy to dote on Annabel, Draco inches his way closer to Harry again, now overhearing little snippets of his conversation with the Minister. He nonchalantly idles up beside them, just a metre or so behind Shacklebolt and well within Harry’s eyesight.

 

“It really is spectacular, Harry,” says the Minister, looking around the elegant gardens with a twinkle in his eye. “And the inside! I’m so impressed, I didn’t know you were such a decorator!”

 

Draco has to hold back a laugh as Harry goes wide-eyed at the Minister’s compliment. “I had nothing to do with that, Kingsley,” he says with a little shake of his head and a chuckle. “I’m useless when it comes to design. I had an amazing designer.”

 

“Oh?” asks Shacklebolt. “Do tell.”

 

“Well, he fixed up Grimmauld Place for me first,” Harry replies, finally meeting Draco’s eye. “And he did a bloody brilliant job.”

 

“That’s incredible,” Shacklebolt replies, not catching that Harry isn’t looking at him anymore. “What sort of price range? I may look into his services; we had an incident in the Magical Maintenance Department a couple of weeks ago down in the basement—you should see the state of it—so we’ve had to move everyone into a temporary spot on Level Nine, which the Unspeakables, as you can imagine, are not very happy about. We need to get the office sorted immediately, and it might be nice to do it up all fancy; it’s always nice when a basement is done up properly. We’ve had no luck finding someone sufficient enough, so far.”

 

“Well,” Harry responds, his eyes focusing back onto the Minister, “the price is pretty high, though I can’t say it’s not worth it.” Draco swallows tightly, his Adam’s apple seemingly getting stuck in his throat as Harry continues. “In fact, I believe it’s the best investment of my life.”

 

Harry’s gaze returns to Draco, and in that moment, Draco feels like he’s frozen in time and space, that he and Harry are the only two in this room and that everything and everybody else around them are just made-up figments of reality, solid in appearance but gas-like in form. If Draco were to wave his hand, everything would melt into the ground—the music, the lights, the food, the house-elves in the kitchen with their Muggle CD player singing along to Voulez-Vouz. It would all go, leaving just Harry and him standing there and gazing into each other’s eyes with an uninterrupted stream.

 

Shacklebolt interrupts his thoughts with a loud declaration. “Well, that is a bold statement, son!” he says, his eyebrows going up. Draco refocuses, blinking a few times before resettling his gaze, still stuck admiringly on Harry.

 

Shrugging in response to the Minister’s exclamation, Harry keeps his eyes locked on Draco as he continues. “It’s true,” he says, before slowly taking a sip of his champagne. He looks thoughtful, then grins slyly. “I’ll admit, he can be a bit difficult at times. Some would probably say he’s impossible to work with. I’ve found that it’s just a matter of putting him in his place, though.”

 

“Of course.”

 

The grin on Harry’s face grows even bigger. “Where did you say the department is located, again?”

 

“Ah, the basement level,” Shacklebolt confirms.

 

“Well,” says Harry, turning back to the Minister, but not before throwing Draco a subtle yet cheeky wink, “I can confirm that his basement work is _phenomenal.”_

 

“Glad to hear it,” says the Minister slowly, one brow raising as he seems to notice Harry’s strange statement.

 

“Excuse me, Sir,” says Harry then. “There’s someone I need to speak to.”

 

Draco turns, his cheeks flaring bright red as Harry walks away from Shacklebolt and up to him, still with that cheeky expression plastered across his face.

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Harry says with a deep chuckle. “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s not polite to eavesdrop on other people's’ conversations?”

 

“You’re telling _me_ about politeness? Did you really need to talk about my _basement_ with the bloody Minister for Magic?” Draco asks, completely humiliated as Shacklebolt gives them both another weird look. “I need to move to America and change my name now that you’ve dealt innuendos about my arse to Kingsley fucking Shacklebolt.”

 

His shoulders shake as Harry tilts his head back and laughs at his own joke. “I _always_ want to talk about your arse, love.” A pause, then Harry’s hand comes to lightly touch Draco’s, pulling him a bit to the side and away from the crowd of mingling witches and wizards. “You’ll do it though, right?” asks Harry as their magic intertwines and crackles around them. He starts walking, and Draco follows, their hands still touching in the middle.

 

“Do what?” Draco asks. They’ve stopped at the side of the crowd, looking out over robes, cocktail dresses, and swirls of beautiful, celebratory magic.

 

“The repair at the Ministry.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Good.”

 

Harry shifts on his feet, and Draco gives him a curious look. “Harry?” he asks.

 

“There’s something else I wanted to ask,” Harry says, looking suddenly nervous.

 

“Go on,” Draco encourages.

 

Without response, Harry reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a small crumpled bit of parchment. He hands it to Draco, who carefully peels apart the folds of the parchment and reads the messy writing.

 

_Draco Malfoy’s home may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

 

Draco’s heart skips a beat as he looks up into the hopeful eyes of Harry Potter. He wants to say so much, but instead the only words he can find are, “Bloody took you long enough.”

 

He steps forward into Harry’s space, looking into the eyes of his smiling boyfriend. They don’t kiss, but as Draco tucks the parchment into his own pocket, he doesn’t mind; he has the rest of his life to kiss Harry Potter. Later, Harry will take Draco home— _their_ home—and kiss and fuck the life out of him. But for now their hands touch lightly and their breaths remain steady, looking to outsiders like good friends and nothing more.

 

But there is more— _so_ much more. Their relationship is like no other, bound by something more than just their histories. Their edges, torn apart by death and war, are melded together by both pain and pleasure. They are two parts that make one extraordinary whole.

 

There is no one else like Harry Potter. To be with a man like him is to keep an open heart and mind, to risk everything for _more._ It’s a challenge, but one Draco has accepted, starting not on this September night, but nearly a year previous when he walked up to the front door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

 

That walk, Draco thinks as Harry’s hand comes to land on his hip and they’re pulled back into the crowd of the party, sparked a long line of changes in his life. And as he’s grabbed from behind by his now drunk best friend and spun around into a sort of manic dance, a fast-tempoed Weird Sisters song blaring across the garden and Harry laughing loudly with Annabel, Hermione, and Ron at his side, it’s a walk he’s damn glad he made.


End file.
